Mask In the Iron Man 2.0
by Neil Kapit
Summary: Tony Stark's Iron Man armor, the sophisticated machine he used to become a superhero, has evolved...and developed its own ideas on superhero morality, with horrible consequences. Based on Joe Quesada's story, except ( debatably ) better.
1. Prologue: Rust

_This Iron Man story is a piece of fan fiction which occurs between the Volume 3 issues, Iron Man 25 and Iron Man 26. It is meant to be an alternate retelling of Joe Quesada's Mask in the Iron Man story, an originally nice idea executed in a fashion which made it unpopular amongst many groups of Iron Fans. Those groups include me, as I was determined to, with nothing more than my brain and my word processor, create a better variant that would be more detailed, more epic in scale, and more faithful to the Iron Mythos. Whether or not I have succeeded in doing this is up to you, the reader.  
  
Before we begin, I would like to heartily thank the people who have helped me with brainstorming, feedback, and moral support, in the preparation for writing this and other fan fics I have done. Special thanks go out to Steve Sellers, who did extensive brainstorming with me in the HeroRealm.com chats, and my personal hero Matthew Malek, who inspired me to do this with his Alternate Iron site. And very special thanks go out to Joe Quesada, who came up with the idea of a living Iron Man armor, even if I didn't care for his version.  
  
_**IRON MAN 1/2: RUST  
**An Iron Man Fanfiction Saga By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit  
  
Mr. Stark, please talk to me. You've been in therapy for three days so far, and you haven't uttered a single word. I have devoted much of my adult life to helping those of the superhuman elite, and the Avengers graciously requested for my services on you.......but it will all be for naught if you do not want to be helped. Mr. Stark......TONY.....please talk to me.   
  
Even if Doctor Leonard Samson were not over six and a half feet in height, his patient would still look meek.  
  
The doctor had received a special contact from the Avengers, the self-styled Earth's Mightiest Heroes . They'd heard of his groundbreaking work with the psychological Gordian Knot that was the Hulk, and they figured that a therapist with so much experience with the superhuman psyche was needed. They told him of their benefactor and friend, Tony Stark, who had been under such pressuring circumstances that he would shatter without the help of a specialist. And when the doctor graciously accepted the Avengers' fee and visited his patient, he could see that nothing they had said was an understatement in the least.  
  
For the three days Doctor Leonard Samson had been visiting with Anthony Edward Stark, Stark had just slumped down in his chair, looking at his briefcase. He didn't utter a single word, only responding to Samsons' queries through gestures. He just sat, leaning his head down, looking at the suede attaché case he carried with him everywhere.   
  
Looking at Stark, Samson could clearly see that something was wrong with the man. He looked ravaged by both outside forces and himself-- he had a very thick, scruffy beard, as though he hadn't shaved in months. His face had several small scars on it, with a long, white bandage covering his seemingly broken nose. And though Samson knew that Stark was worth billions of dollars, he wore rather cheap clothes, including an extensively worn out tuxedo, and a stained brown trenchcoat. Samson had heard Stark's name on the headlines of the newspapers and on every news channel, and he could easily that the major events involving Stark and his bodyguard Iron Man had at least something to do with Stark's mental state. But he did not know all, or even some, of the details, only the hype the news media gave.  
  
Tony Stark was one of the most mysterious men on Earth. Samson knew the basics about Stark's role on Earth-- Stark was one of the greatest inventors of the 20th century. He had created the technological armor which empowered the late superhero Iron Man. He had established several companies on the cutting edge of technology, and had many contacts in the government, but abandoned them all for reasons unknown to the world at large. He was a suave playboy who constantly appeared in the world of high society, but never committed to any one person. Stark was the equivalent of a modern day Howard Hughes, with Hughes' intellect and charm. And, quite possibly, Hughes' problems. But all Samson had to go on was guesswork, and his conjectures could not do much more.  
  
Mr. Stark, Samson said with more than a twinge of irritation in your voice, If you don't want to be helped, then I am wasting my time. Your friends in the Avengers paid generously for my services, but if you do not respond, I might as well leave, and pay them back. Which is a shame, as I could use new clothing, and tailoring to fit me is quite costly.   
  
Samson started to get up, his massive arms almost damaging the chair he sat in as he elevated himself, but without warning, Stark said flatly, Wait.   
  
Excuse me?   
  
Tony Stark continued to look down, but now his hands were moving. He danced his fingers across a complex series of miniature buttons on his attaché case, and in less than a single second, the top part of the case released, with miniature hydraulics forcing it up. Inside, several pieces of metal were neatly organized. Thin, metallic red and gold pieces of metal, shaped to fit the contours of the human body. Pieces of Iron Man's famed armor.  
  
Since I have little meaning left in my life, Tony Stark said uneasily, I might as well tell you secrets I have spent years guarding. This.....this THING......has been something I, Anthony Edward Stark, have worn for years.   
  
Leonard Samson backed into his chair quickly, his green ponytail shaking as though it was startled. With his eyes widening, Samson looked at Stark intently.  
  
Standing up Stark held the mask of the armor in the palm of his hand, looking at it hesitantly. He continued talking, gaining a little more confidence in his words as he continued.   
  
For over a decade, I have devoted my life to this armor. I have spent billions of dollars and thousands of hours revising it, and evolving it. I have worn it as though it was an extension of myself, pitting the suit and myself against any enemies I might find, from the lowliest thug to beings beyond mortal comprehension. And I have almost religiously guarded the technology within, making sure that nobody but me wield such power. In little over a decade, this armor has gone from a bulky gray transistorized shell, to a glittering crimson and gold mesh of nanotech components. It represents the culmination of my entire adult life. It represents my greatest success......   
  
Pausing, Tony Stark winced, as though he was punched in the stomach. And, in recent months, my greatest FAILURE.   
  
Doctor Leonard Samson picked up a pad of note paper and a pen, and quickly began scribbling down everything Tony said. We have much to talk about, it seems.   
  
Tony Stark nodded, and started to continue.  
  
**NEXT: IRON MAN 26**


	2. Chapter 1: Displacement

IRON MAN 26: DISPLACEMENT  
**Part One of a Fan Fiction Saga  
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit  
  
** Thus far, Tony, our sessions have covered the majority of your past. We've talked about your father, your relationships, your stress levels, your drinking, and your armored adventures from alleyways to alternate realities. We've met and talked in depth for over a week and a half now, and my notebook is fill to burst with scribbled observations. If I were a lesser man, I would use these scribbled observations to write a biography and make a killing.   
But I still feel as though we haven't yet gotten to the root of the problem. Knowledge of your earlier life helps me to some extent, but it seems as though more recent events are what have caused your mental state to be in such dire shape. With the......Iron Man incident.....broadcasted on all the networks for the past couple months, I would have to be quite incompetent not to form some form of link.   
I'm ready when you are, Tony.   
  
Looking up from his intensely marked notebook, Doctor Leonard Samson took a thoughtful gaze at his patient, Tony Stark. After a somewhat dubious start, Samson had finally broken through Tony's seeming barriers and had gotten him to talk about his neuroses. For days, Tony went into detail on his turbulent life, starting at childhood, and working his way towards his career as the armored hero, Iron Man. But whenever the topic turned to more recent history, Tony remained quiet. Perhaps he would try to change the subject, perhaps he'd mention his aversion to talking just yet , or perhaps he'd just sit quietly, not even responding. But as Samson could tell, Tony Stark was an intensely private man.   
  
And he could no longer tolerate that privacy. From Samson's watch, Tony was fighting a battle inside his mind, trying to choose between keeping quiet and retaining his secrets, and talking to Samson and risking whatever consequences that might have. Though at first Tony's position seemed stationary, his hands were trembling, and his eyes winced as a thousand secret thoughts went through his mind. Eventually, Tony's lips slowly moved, and he said, stoically......  
  
** All right.   
  
I don't have anything to lose. I suppose I'll tell you, Doctor, the truth behind the recent headlines and tabloids. I'll tell you WHY so many lives were destroyed, and so many more ruined......MINE INCLUDED. **  
  
Reaching into a small backpack, Samson grasped another notebook, a blank one, and immediately began writing.  
  
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**The point in which my troubles began took place mere months ago. I do not remember exactly when; I suppose it was a compilation of several different events, which all led up in their own fashions to some dire repercussions. But I do remember what I felt before everything went so tragically awry.  
  
Confidence. Power. Purpose.  
  
Freedom.  
  
I remember, six months ago, flying free, like a bird. Like a mechanical bird, a bird clad in armor with high-powered jets. Thousands of feet above my elaborate mansion in Washington, I was testing my most recent programs for flight courses. Turning my manual control on, I just let the Iron Man armor do the work, controlling my descent through the pages of code written into the microscopic circuitry. Behind the armor's optical HUD, I just gazed straight, viewing the sights as the armor did the work.  
  
It was an incredible sensation; not a physical one, but a mental one. From behind the lenses, I looked down on the island where my mansion stood, and smiled with a bit of contempt. Though in terms of mass the island dwarfed me with ease, from this perspective, it was a mere blob of green with patches of brown, little more than a pimple on the skin of the Earth. I was in the middle of the wild blue yonder, between the earth and the cosmos. I was experiencing personal sensations available only to mutants, gods, and aliens; no humans had the flight experience I had, but with my personal technology, I could enjoy this.  
  
I was still monitoring the read-outs in my lenses as I flew, keeping track of the more administrative parts of this flight sequence. But my exhilirance could not be hidden. The armor moved as though it was alive, adding more fluidity to its movements as each line of the program executed. From standard straight flight, the suit went to elaborate twists, turns, and loops, flying over every sector of the island and changing its course with each passing rotation. And inside, I just enjoyed the fruits of my labors, watching the sheer greatness of my personal machinery.  
  
After diving towards the earth and deftly maneuvering through a clump of trees without a scratch, I further slipped away into this pseudo-athletic, pseudo-mental ecstasy, after being awakened from my euphoria by a signal from the world below, direct to the armor's frequency.  
  
Are you finished, Tony?   
  
My secretary Pepper Potts, one of my most trusted employees and friends, had some business for me. She said; Sorry to interrupt on your day off, Tony, but you've gotten several messages, and I think you should take a listen.   
  
I didn't really hide my irritation well, but I still knew that I had responsibilities, and I told her to send the phone messages to the special frequency in my helmet receivers. At the time, I was a combination between an inventor, a CEO, a consultant, a socialite, and an Avenger. That takes time away from sitting idly on my ass, or in my case, flying by the metal-covered seat of my pants.  
  
Under instructions I'd given her earlier, Pepper sent my answering machine's data onto a special device, set to my helmet frequency, and I received the words from my various clients, friends, and foes. I leisurely hovered down to earth as they transmitted.  
  
Five messages. Almost all of which would come into play in the future, and all of which I'll quote. Message one, from my ex-flame and fellow Avenger, Janet Van Dyne. You probably know her better as the Avengers' chairwoman, the Wasp.  
  
Tony? Just a reminder, the Avengers have arranged an advance charity spot in Florida a month from now. I know you don't like these sort of events, but with the recent Triune troubles we've had, it may be necessary.   
If I had gone to that event, it might have been a nice ego boost. Message two, from T'Challa, king of Wakanda. A very mysterious hero type, and while I've worked alongside him in many cases, and have great respect for his courage and skill, I haven't been able to fully trust him. Especially after he crashed his nation's economy for some reason I'm not clear on, right after I invested in one of his companies.  
  
Regarding the recent concerns you have, Anthony, I believe a meeting is in order. I have arranged for a conversation in the Embassy over tea. Be there within a fortnight.   
  
I didn't know if his message was comforting, or disconcerting, since the man always keeps a poker face on, even behind his ceremonial mask.   
  
Message three, from Jim Rhodes, one of my oldest and closest friends of all. Who's remained loyal to me as an employee, a comrade, and a friend, even after all the crap I've put him through being Iron Man's closest confidante.   
  
Tony? Jim. Lissen, about the Parnell case, I've contacted some old military buddies to keep tabs on his dealings. I'll let ya know if I hear any War Machine trouble. Later.   
  
The Parnell case he referred to involved one of Rhodey's old comrades in his army days, who managed to find one of my armors and use it for his own irresponsible goals; something I have always abhorred, my technology used in a disorderly fashion. Message four, from the President of Marvel Comics, who once published the Iron Man Charity Comic.  
  
Tony? It's Bill. Yeah, I know Iron Man sales remain strong, but me and Joe thought we could shake up the book a little, maybe? Do you think we could make Iron Man a teenager in a Japanese-style manga armor? Or at least add Ultimate in the title somewhere?   
  
** I've read a bit of their books, Samson interrupted, And I haven't been very fond of them. Especially not that Azarello fellow. Anyway, continue.   
  
**If it weren't for the profits being sent to the Maria Stark Foundation, I never would have licensed my armored identity to those idiots, not that it matters now. And, of course, message five, from my then-romantic-interest, Rumiko Fujikawa.  
  
Look, Tony, I know we haven't been very close, and I know you weren't happy with what happened with Ultimo, but I really think we should work things out. I'll be in Seattle for a little bit, and--   
  
Hold, , I thought to the armor, using my neuroelectric impulses to pause the message. Rumiko and I had a rather turbulent relationship, with neither of us ever being able to arrange time for each other, and the fact that she was ten years younger than me didn't help. Many of our meetings involved her trying to get me off to some sort of wild escapade, and me being too busy with my work and my Iron Man time. I'd like to say that I actually wanted to resolve any emotional baggage, that by meeting with her I at least wanted to stay friends.  
  
But as I started to dial her number, my thoughts were purely political.  
  
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A call, a shower, a flight to the mainland, and a short drive, and I was at the restaurant Rumiko and I agreed to meet at by 2:15 pm. We scheduled the rendezvous for 2:00 pm, but I took some extra time to prepare the armor for storage in the trunk of my car.  
  
And to be fair, it only took me two minutes to decompress the armor into a storable form, and put the security systems built into my Prowler on full alert. Much of that time was spent lovingly staring at the armor, as it lay inside the trunk. It looked like a red-and-gold egg in the compressed form, with many different areas glowing with dimmed light. I knew that it was just a standard sign that all systems were alert, but from the angle I looked at it from, standing above almost like an expectant father, it seemed alive, with warmth permeating through the titanium shell and onto my hand. There was incredible potential within the shell, and I knew I was responsible for it. Then, that feeling pleased me to no end.  
  
Of course, judging from the look on Rumiko's face when I finally drove to our meeting place, she didn't feel the same.  
  
She looked at me with a frown at first, having sat still at the table for fifteen minutes, but warmed up more as I began to settle in my seat. She arranged for our little date to be at a small cafe in downtown Seattle, a rather quaint little place. I guess she wanted fewer people to be around when the two socialites started bickering. At least the coffee here was decent.  
  
Conversing with her was rather disjointed, as though our conversations were taped from different meetings and brought to a different table. She was concerned with making our relationship work, for reasons I can't fathom. I was interested in using her as a means of claiming her father's corporation, which once belonged to me. How I lost my corporation is not important, and talking about it would leave you insane, as it almost left me. What is important is that, in my arrogance, I did not pay any regard to Rumiko's feelings.  
  
....so, Grandfather's birthday is coming up soon, and it'll be a huge party......I was wondering if you'd like to come with me, Tony?   
  
.....my consulting contract with S/F lasts two and a half more weeks. From there, I probably won't return, with other prospects remaining....   
  
......I just got this dress from Victoria's Secret, real fine silk. I think from France....how do you like it, Tony?   
  
....I still haven't quite forgot about the last experience with S/F, Rumiko. I'd like to look into that some more.....   
  
Tony, do you even CARE about US?   
  
I DO care, Ru, and.... I said, as I was cut off by circumstances outside the cafe. A little less than a block away, there was a rather large fire raging, burning through some buildings. From the screams that I could hear even from my table, reportedly a propane tanker had crashed into a building, and there was a large explosion. The cafe was safe, and fire trucks were already coming towards the scene.   
Damn it, I said, I think I should get Iron Man's attention for this.   
  
Firemen are already on their way, Tony! Rumiko said impatiently. You don't need to stop our date!   
  
Only way I can trust firefighters to be able to handle this without casualties is for them to be fireproof, , I said, and I removed a small black device from my pants pocket, and placed it in my ear. To an unknowing bystander, it would look like a hearing aid, but as it connected to my right lobe, small microfilaments started to spread into my various orifices, and it started to convert my thoughts into electronic impulses, and transmitted them to the armor. From the cafe table, and without Rumiko knowing, I was in remote control of the Iron Man armor, as it burst out of my car's trunk and expanded, directed towards the blaze. Iron Man has been alerted. Anyway, continue.   
  
Rumiko went on about something, our relationship or my lack of attention or that time of the month or something. I don't quite remember, as though my physical body was present, my thoughts were directed towards the armor, and I was directing a course towards the blaze. From there, as my meat-body passively nodded in order to feign interest, my armored body mechanically marched towards the downed tanker, and unleashed streams of a quick-freezing chemical onto the burning oil itself. As bystanders and firemen cheered me on, I multitasked between the blaze, and people in danger. I stopped to assist a man who'd been pinned under some debris, as the last vestiges of the flame started to come near him, when Rumiko started shouting at me, enough to break my concentration.   
  
DAMN IT, TONY, IRON MAN CAN TAKE CARE OF HIMSELF! She yelled, not knowing that I was effectively Iron Man. She did know, though, that I was connected to him, and her shouting caused me to lose control. Fortunately at the time, the armor had limited self-sufficiency, and managed to automatically shoot a more powerful burst of freon to stop the blaze, and save the day. From there, without my input, no more civilians were in danger. I managed to regain control, use the strength of the armor's servos to easily remove any debris trapping the man, and fly off after a heroic welcome gesture.  
  
But Rumiko didn't care for my negligence, and decided to lecture me about how I never paid attention to her, with several colorful word choices. It's always business with you, isn't it! Some high-powered meeting, some paperwork, some time needed to babysit your little boyfriend Iron Man. What about me? No wonder you're a playboy, if you just give women some sex and throw them out....   
  
Probably because my business is IMPORTANT, I said, my own anger starting to surface. I run a successful consulting firm with all the profits going to charity-- charities that make the world MOVE, such as the Avengers. I devote any spare time I have to building inventions that further humanity's progress as a species, and solve any challenges we face. And I back all the activities of IRON MAN, who is not my boyfriend , but a great man who has saved millions of lives-- lives INCLUDING those next to the downed tanker only a few dozen feet away. I cannot devote my time to you, and I will NOT go out of my way to please you every time you get BORED. Now if you'll excuse me.....   
  
I would have expected Rumiko to slap me, run off crying, and spend the evening curled up with a tub of Haagen Daaz. Instead, she just looked at me, as I returned to my car, with my armor hibernating in the trunk. She was angry, of course....but she also looked puzzled, like sensed that I was hiding something. That I had some secret behind my constant work, that left me displaced even in person. That there was a reason for my lack of emotions, beyond the convenient ( abliet true ) reason of me being a bastard.  
  
She was right, of course. And though it was inconceivable at the time, the secrets I kept would end up nearly destroying me.....  
  
** What do you mean, Tony?   
  
Anthony Stark sighed, and started to get up from his seat. It's nearly the end of our session. Now if you'll excuse me?   
  
Samson walked out of the room, and started to leave the Avengers Mansion he was paid to come to. There was plenty of material he had already enscribed from Tony's encounter with his former girlfriend, but Tony was still cryptic about that one event in the near future which shook him to the core of his soul. At least it seemed like Tony would discuss it in tommorow's session, but with the potential for destruction that Tony could unleash with his brilliant mind, any mental problems he had would best be solved soon.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED......


	3. Chapter 2: Icarus Wings

IRON MAN 27: ICARUS WINGS  
Part Two of an Iron Man Fan Fiction Saga  
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit  
  
When we last left off, Tony, you mentioned that you had just broken up with your girlfriend. I've been thinking about everything you told me, and I've come to the following conclusions....   
  
Hold it, Doctor, Anthony Stark adamantly stated to his therapist, Doctor Leonard Samson. Though he spoke with less hesitation than previous sessions, Stark was nonetheless still uneasy and unkempt; his clothes and facial hair remained unmanaged, and he still avoided eye contact when speaking. Though I regret the way I handled the Rumiko situation, she is nevertheless just one woman. Her frustration does not compare to the deaths of hundreds.   
  
What do you mean, Tony? Samson replied, looking through his notes as he spoke. In almost two weeks, you have continually hinted at some seemingly horrible crime you have committed, yet I cannot figure out what it is. It would help both of us if you would, upfront, explain what you have done, and why you think you must condemn yourself for it.   
  
Anthony Stark knitted his brow, just as frustrated as Samson was with their exchange. It's not that simple. Many things-- too many things-- led up to my past and present problems. Unless you want the abridged version so we can terminate our current contract early....   
  
If you insist, Samson sighed. However, the green-haired doctor was even more intrigued than before.  
  
**In order to try to forget the way my last date with Rumiko ended (with shouting and hurt feelings ), I took the next day off in order to participate in my typical recreational activity--programming. In a command booth stationed on the right wall of my vast laboratory, I sat at a keyboard, typing at vast speeds as I gazed upon my armor. The armor was placed inside a black, rectangular chamber, similar to a coffin inside Doctor Frankenstein's lab. Several dozen fiber-optic cables were attached to the headpiece, transferring thousands of bits into the armor's hard drives.  
  
Years ago, all of my work on the armor was manual; with a soldering iron in one hand, a workbench full of resources, and a heart filled with passion, I would assemble components with only my own two hands. However, as time went on, the armor evolved with it, and my handiwork reached its limits, and all the operations on the suit had to be done by mechanical instruments. Eventually, the armor became so advanced that I could not advance its physical components anymore; the only improvements I could make were on the mental side-- the programming directing the suit's responses. Of course, typing endless lines of code was significantly less fulfilling than getting my hands dirty; nevertheless, if there was a means of improving my technology, I would pursue it compulsively.  
  
Thus, I sat in my swivel chair, writing programs in a language of my own design. I remained there for hours, with lines of code seamlessly flowing from my mind to my fingers to the computer to the armor. I thought of many different concepts to enhance the armor's in-combat performance, and designed the armor to be more self-sufficient-- to negate all command input except my own, to have several pre-planned courses of actions, and to be able to automatically select those courses based on the given situation. It was like I was creating a living being, except that I never intended the armor to be a direct lifeform. More like an extension of an existing one-- yours truly, who would use the armor's strength and versatility to achieve feats beyond humanity's organic limits. And though I hadn't field-tested my programs yet, I maintained full confidence in my designs. I created them, after all.  
  
Of course, as is usually the case, I couldn't sit and stew in my naively confident ideas for long, without being interrupted by business. After several hours of having my phone lines blocked and my lab's acoustics dampened, Jocasta, my computer's operating system ( though I consider her to be more like a person than a software package ), appeared with a special alert.  
  
Blast! Almost finished with the final hundred statements....  
  
I apologize, Anthony, she spoke in metallic tones, but I have received a high priority alert from James Rhodes. He has some information he believes you were seeking.   
  
Put him on.   
  
In approximately .79 seconds according to a small menu on one of my many monitors, the phone line between Rhodey's location in the Puget Sound, and my own home was connected, and a CGI model of Jim's features appeared on another screen. As he spoke, the face duplicated all of his facial expressions and movements almost precisely.  
  
Tony? Been talkin' to some of my buddies in the mercenary biz, an' with the incentives you gave em, they told me some stuff I thought you'd like to know.   
  
I know how to find War Machine.   
  
With the CGI brow I designed knit, Rhodey went on about the information he had found. Reportedly, he'd contacted some of his old friends from his mercenary days-- something that he normally preferred not to talk about, and something that I preferred not to know about. Jim had managed to find out every detail he could about the present and future whereabouts of our target, a mercenary by the name of Parnell Jacobs.  
  
A mercenary who had an Iron Man armor, I might add. Through a complex series of events, Rhodey's former partner has found the War Machine, a much more heavily armed version of the Iron Man design. He'd been using it for his own goals, destroying property and ending lives for his own profit-- with MY invention. I could not rest knowing that my creations, meant to enforce order and peace, were causing chaos, so I had earlier asked Rhodey to look into the situation as much as he could.  
  
I suppose that you'd be interested in a beachside vacation in the winter? I replied to his summation of Parnell's whereabouts.  
  
Go on, Chief....  
  
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Within days, I had made extensive preparations to arrive at Parnell's next target.....an oil rig off the coast of Florida. Apparently, he was hired by Roxxon Oil to eliminate as much of the competition as he could, so I was obliged to dispense some armored justice. In only a short time, I managed to buy a four-star resort near the beach and closed it down to the general public, giving all the customers a full refund. Me and Rhodey effectively had the whole hotel for ourselves, with all the staff serving us personally. Back then, I could do that sort of thing with little effort.   
  
** Back then? Samson asked. I don't follow....   
  
**Check the Stark Solutions stock value on the Exchange, Doctor, and you might get an idea. In light of recent events, my consulting business has decreased greatly. But that isn't relevant right now.  
  
So, after making our way through a crowd of scowling tourists ( who I could have cared less about at that point ), we managed to sneak in a beachside vacation while hunting War Machine. I'm not sure what Rhodey did during that time, because I spent the day modifying a basement in the resort into a working lab, with a small portion of my computer equipment filling the room. In a matter of hours, every piece was up and running, and I launched several remote controlled probes to scan the area, going across every acre of the Sunshine state to lock onto anyone using Starktech. All of the probes were on full alert, and each one was designed with a vast range; any signs of my armored assailant would trigger an alarm on my watch, so I could ideally go out and enjoy the sun until further notice. However, I chose to stay in my little crawlspace, continuing to program my armor; I had the basics down, but wanted to expand the armor even more, to give it even more features and options for all situations. I spent an extra four hours entering and re-entering lines of code, until Rhodey entered the lab with his special access codes and a smart-ass grin on his face.  
  
And to think you said you were once addicted to that techno-crap.....  
  
My frown was only hidden by the fact that my back was still turned as I continued to work. What gave you that idea?   
  
Well, while I've been hangin' near the beach talkin' to some of the local ladies, you've been stuck down here with your tin suit and your little machines. I'm sure the ol' Tony Stark charm hasn't gone rusty.....   
  
Not rusty, I stated, just not important. The machines are what's important. Their creation, their functions, and their CREATOR; all have saved millions of lives. Everything else is just a distraction to my true calling.   
  
Which is wearing making iron undies and beating the crap out of the bad guys?   
  
In the most simple and crude terms, Rhodey......yes.   
  
So what if a guy like, say, Parnell gets his hands on better iron undies?   
  
I paused for a second, then turned around, and threw Rhodey's previous grin back at him. The War Machine armor is years behind in technology. Its pilot is just hired muscle who got a lucky break. With my current skills and level of tech, I don't need to worry.   
  
Well, Rhodey said, making his exit, if you're done strokin' your ego, I'll be down in the hot tub...  
  
I shrugged, and returned to the keyboard. I'd known Rhodey long enough to take his jests in stride. I was still on the forefront of technology, and had already figured out what I thought was the best means of implementing that technology before the rest of the world had even discovered it. Diversions such as work, women, and alcohol could only temporarily slow my progress, and when I used that progress in battles of life and death, few could stand against it.  
  
As Parnell Jacobs would discover.  
  
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The probes I had released found Parnell only five hours after their release, in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Apparently, he'd been hired by the good folks at Roxxon Oil to eliminate the competition. He'd been commanded to destroy all oil rigs in the area, eliminate any witnesses, and have the resources freed up for Roxxon's own consumption and profit. Both Roxxon and Parnell would get more money, and the fatcats at Roxxon would be totally unaffected as their armored mercenary damaged everything beyond recognition.  
  
Well, I thought, not if my armor and I had any say in it.  
  
Five minutes, and I was already there, from my resort in Tampa to the rig where Parnell was headed towards. Supersonic boot jets and travel with computerized precision made the trip two minutes long, and the armor decompression sequence lasted only thirty seconds. The other two minutes and a half in between were spent looking at myself, fully armored, in the mirror.   
  
When I arrived, Parnell was practicing the only thing he knew-- destruction. The setting sun glistened on the black-and-silver shell of his armor, as his cannons flared up and he blasted the hell out of a manned rig. Most of the workers went down with the station, screaming throughout the conflagration. Those who were lucky ( so to speak ) just got cut down by stray bullets. Throughout, Parnell stood straight on his boot jets, as cold and emotionless as the metal he wore.  
  
The metal that I created. A red haze briefly flashed across my eyes, contrasting with a green targeting cursor displayed on my visor. Parnell was right in line with my weapons, and the red haze of my mind and the green cursor of my armor combined to release a yellow burst of light from my chest-mounted beam. The light was strong enough to burn through solid steel like paper. In other words, it was a warning shot.  
  
Parnell Jacobs staggered as the sudden burst of heat and force pushed him back, but he stayed stationary and turned to me, ignoring the ruined rig and the several dead bodies inside. YOU , he stated, the mouthpiece in his armor not dulling the rage in his voice. Stark's tin-plated lapdog.   
  
Yes.   
  
I suppose you're gonna give the speech about how you're such a big hero an' how that'll make it so you can kick the crap out of evil guys like me.   
  
No, I replied, deciding not to go with the heroic speech I had in mind, instead opting for more inflammatory tactics. I'm just wondering what GLENDA would think.   
  
YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH! He shouted, wildly releasing a barrage of missiles from his shoulder launchers. I managed to dodge most of them, and the few that hit me did little more than push me back an inch and cause a light bruise. Of course, to any bystanders left alive, it would seem as though Parnell was wounded most, as he was cringing from the impact of the words I'd just said, like an animal at bay.  
  
She's your WIFE, right? I continued, as War Machine fired off a round of bullets, none of which actually did any damage. And you PROMISED her you'd give up the mercenary trade, right? That you wouldn't have to do this sort of work anymore?   
  
I stayed still, while Parnell paused in mid-air, ready to fight but for some reason, choosing not to fire. What if she knew EXACTLY what you were doing here, PARNELL? The massive destruction, the murder of innocents......are you going to bring THAT up to Glenda on your next anniversary? Because if you don't, I might tell her MYSELF......  
  
Parnell roared furiously, and turned the full brunt of the War Machine armor's extensive weapons systems on me. Some of the weapons just slid off my more modern suit harmlessly, but the combined impacts managed to batter me senseless, as my head slid against the edges of the helmet. The loosened tooth told me that perhaps I'd set the bastard off too hard by trying to probe what little vestiges of conscience he had left, and that I would have to respond. He continued shooting, closing in on me, and I tried to dodge him as best as I could.  
  
Unfortunately, dodging wasn't as easy in this armor as in other models. I had programmed the armor to be mainly automatic, so that it would overcome the weaknesses inherent in the human brain; but it still needed human input, and when I made the suit more complex, I didn't exactly work on the interface, as I assumed I was a more-than-capable pilot. The pre-planned flight courses wouldn't work here, so I wove elaborate sequences of mnemonic data which the armor read, and it managed to avoid most of the fire-- but not enough. I was just inside my little suit, thinking as hard as I could just to stay alive, and the simpler interface of the War Machine armor just allowed Parnell to keep firing contently.  
  
Eventually, after being knocked around a bit more, I decided to return fire, and released a few pulse bolts, thinking like mad as the armor's limbs positioned my arms into blasting position, but the pulses only grazed Parnell; it seemed he had more practice with his armor-- my old armor-- than I did with mine. So, upon taking a few more rounds, I released a blast of double repulsors, and knocked him back into the rig. After flying into an I-Beam, he slumped down on the platform, stunned amidst the wreckage he caused.  
  
I flew back towards him, and decided to finish him. I entered the burning platform slowly, and started to activate the chest-laser sequence, slowly charging power for a full blast. As the charging commenced, I took the time to slowly say, with a sly grin behind the mask, Game Over.   
  
That catchphrase was all Parnell needed.  
  
As the beam released itself, he raised a loose side of chrome plate and held it up to his chest like a shield. Apparently, he was either acting instinctively, or he somehow knew that the mirrored surface would reflect my light back at me. Either way, I was receiving a dose of my own metaphorical medicine.  
  
My chest plate got hotter as the beam reversed itself, deflected from my chest to my abdomen. It started to burn, even past the temperature-shielded coating, and my stomach seared. As I winced in pain, I tried to think of what the deactivation code was for this configuration, trying to ignore the heat. I immediately thought of the sequence, and hoped that I would be conscious enough afterwards to deal with War Machine.  
  
But the sequence I thought was for my last model of armor. The one I wore three weeks ago.   
  
Similar to Icarus from Greek myth, I had overestimated my wings, and the sun was melting them now. The only things I could think of through the pain, as I slipped into unconsciousness from the red-hot metal heated inadvertently by my own weapon, were curses.........  
  
** I thought you said Parnell would discover your own destructive power, Tony, Samson interrupted, tapping his glasses. From the way you tell it, at first you seemed to have gotten the worst of it......  
  
At first, Doctor, Tony said coldly, his voice without any real tone. At first.   
  
**TO BE CONTINUED........**


	4. Chapter 3: Return Fire

IRON MAN 28: RETURN FIRE  
Part Three of an Iron Man FanFiction Saga  
By Neil Allfather Nitz Kapit  
With Thanks to Steve Sellers, Zach Couture, and R. Ratt  
  
So, when we left off, Tony, you had been telling me about an earlier.....adventure....under your Iron Man identity, in which you had made a fatal error in the middle of battle, and were on the verge of death......  
  
You don't need any sort of psychiatric knowledge to understand that I did, in fact, survive, right, Doctor Samson?   
  
Just checking to make sure. For many people in my--OUR--field, death can be a temporary state.   
  
And for the normal people caught in the crossfire?   
  
Doctor Leonard Samson paused, resting his squared chin on his hand, to look directly into Tony Stark's eyes. Despite almost two weeks of sessions, the superhuman therapist had never been able to fully analyze what the look in Stark's eyes meant. There was this light, misty glaze of moisture across his eyeballs, heightening the red, bloodshot veins radiating out from the pupils. It was a glaze that looked unnatural; as if it had developed as a colony of bacteria over Stark's pupils. Perhaps Stark was just distressed, from the traumas he kept hinting at, but Samson saw something decidedly off-kilterabout his eyes.  
  
He set aside his suspicions, however, to continue. So it is established that you are alive, and always have been. But something tells me the means in which you survived are unsettling you.....   
  
**Indeed.  
  
When I awoke, I was far away from the coastal oil rigs which War Machine was terrorizing. Instead, I was on the other end of the country, safe at home in the Stark House infirmary. I was stretched out on a metal diagnostic table, with several bandages on my abdomen and a general feeling of soreness coursing through my battered, naked body. My armor was missing, and so was my memory; I was still somewhat delirious, and did not understand what had happened, only that I was naked and injured and didn't remember why.  
  
As I winced at the first sight of light, I uttered a single word.....  
  
Jocasta.   
  
A monitor lowered downwards from the white-tiled ceiling to my level, out of hydraulic levers installed in the floors above. Good evening, Tony. I assume you wish to know the events that transpired during your unconsciousness.   
  
That....can wait... I said, finding it difficult to speak through the pain. Where....is the armor?   
  
The pixelated face on the screen paused for a second, then smiled at me. Your Armor has returned, and is stored safely within your lab. It has received minor damage to the abdominal guard plates, but nothing that is irreparable.   
So....how did I get....back here?   
  
Everything resolved itself according to program procedures, Tony.   
  
I.....think I could use....more details.   
  
As I asked this, Jocasta temporarily paused, and on the monitor screen, another window appeared overlapping her face. Upon the window, the CGI face I designed of Jim Rhodes appeared.  
  
Tony, he said, You gotta teach ME how to do that....   
  
I....don't follow.   
  
The CGI face blinked, and another window appeared, a larger one overshadowing much of the left side of Jocasta's face. This window started to flicker, and then showed some footage.  
  
The footage was taken by tiny, microscopic cameras inside the armor's helmet lens. It was somewhat blurry, as it was taken inside of a destroyed, burning oil rig. However, it still was clear enough to show a sufficient recap of the events I missed during my black out.  
  
In the center of the window, a black figure with guns protruding from his person held a mirror-like surface to his chest; it reflected a strong light that was almost too much for my pupils to endure, and it shone right through the smoke surrounding the area. The camera view shook around, having difficulty focusing through the battle around it, but the focus remained clear enough.  
  
Suddenly, the light stopped shining, the black figure dropped the mirror, and the camera view stabilized. The figure approached me as I was unconscious, and raised its arm, with a miniature chaingun extended right towards my face. However, in a manner of seconds, the camera view thrust upwards, and a chromed red hand grabbed the figure's gun and smashed it. The black figure staggered back, but his parry was intercepted by the back of the red metal hand smashing into his face. As he crouched, shaking his armored head in a daze, metal hands started to smash into him with unrelenting fury. At speeds faster than any human nervous system would allow for, fists flew, battering the black figure's face, chest, and abdomen; especially the abdomen. Finally, the ballet of beatings was ended with a round of repulsor fire, knocking the figure out of the burning rig, and over the ocean scarcely visible through the blitzkrieg. The camera view turned 180 degrees, and ended.  
  
I followed back in the hotel you bought, like you told me to. So lemme get this straight.....you were UNCONSCIOUS while you did all that?   
  
Yes, I replied, a smart grin sneaking its way through my discomfort. Standard Iron Man programming procedure. If unconscious, neutralize threat....and return to base.   
  
Well, that much worked, he said, But what about our buddy Parnell? What happened to him?   
  
Couldn't tell......  
  
Then, both windows closed, and Jocasta's face on the desktop started to glow. She created a new window-- a map of Florida, with a glowing dot moving across the screen. Your armor, as per protocol, also attached a small tracer module to War Machine, so that you could follow him when you regained composure.   
  
So..... I said, stretching out my legs and forcing myself up, That's what I plan to do.   
  
A sharp pain in my stomach immediately hit me as I forced myself upward, all but blinding me. You received second-degree burns over the course of your battle, Tony. It will take weeks for them to heal, and until then, I suggest you take it easier.   
  
However, I continued on, having gotten off of the table and to my feet, taking slow steps across the floor of the white room, and towards the clothing heaped upon a stool. This isn't....open for debate. A very deranged individual has gotten ahold of one of my inventions. I won't be able to rest until he's dealt with. Get me the armor.  
  
Rhodey's CGI image maximized upon Jocasta's cheek, and shook its head. An' you realize that if you fight him in your state, even with your programming jazz, you may end up restin' forever.   
  
In that case, I sputtered, crouching a bit as I walked out of the infirmary and into a special chamber Get me a side of pain-killers with that armor.   
  
The monitor went blank, and retracted into the ceiling, as I left the room through an automatic, omnium-enforced gate. One room to the left, across the endless halls beneath my mansion, the armor was stored. The steps were still difficult, but I assumed myself that moving would no longer be so difficult in the armor.  
  
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Neither Rhodey nor Jocasta thought that taking on Parnell directly was the best of ideas. And, judging from the occasional flash of pain in my abs, and the continuing warmth of abdominal plate of the armor ( which was odd, as the cooling units would normally bring the suit back to room temperature ), I could understand why. The sensations were especially painful, not just because I was injured, but because I brought those injuries upon myself, with my own arrogance.  
  
The armor's long-range tracking had pinpointed Parnell's location to a small town on the offskirts of Tampa, curiously enough. All that was left for me to fly there and knock him down a few pegs; but, judging from the last battle, that would be difficult. I had advanced the armor's controls beyond my own control-- operating the armor was almost painfully difficult, and even simple things like manual flight required complex sequences of thought that caused headaches to even attempt. When I flew to the suburbs where War Machine was lurking, I started with an automatic flight course, but I ended up freezing in midair, as the mapping system only worked in two dimensions.  
  
Because of this handicap, I was stuck impotently hovering fifty feet above a K-Mart, knowing that Parnell was somewhere in the area, but that he could easily be hidden amongst the pedestrian crowd. I started to think my way down, straining my lobes as the boot jets slowly died down, and leisurely reaching the pavement as the middle-class families around me wondered what a Fifth Avenue superhero was doing in a K-Mart Parking lot. I had already received a painful headache from doing so, and activating the sensors to try to home in on the impulses I was receiving. My brow knit tightly, and for a second, I closed my eyes, the stress shooting through my cerebellum.  
  
That's when it hit me.....literally.  
  
It was two high intensity, focused repulsor blasts. The armor cracked as I rocketed backwards, plowing through two mini-vans and onto my plated posterior. A tooth loosened in my mouth as I spat blood onto the inside of my mask, wincing as I saw War Machine flying out of the K-Mart, plowing straight through the automatic door without even waiting for the greeting. He flew somewhat erratically, and his armor was covered in dents and dings and char marks-- but he still came towards me. Parnell Jacobs may have been a deceitful weasel, but he was still a weasel that could fight, even through his injuries.  
  
He'd receive worse, anyway.  
  
Holding his arm out near my chest, while standing straight by virtue of his magnetized boots, Parnell had paused over the auto wreckage that cradled my body. His eye lenses flashed, and he started to speak as he started to unload specially designed, armor-piercing rounds. His bullets caused pains equivalent to a thousand bee stings as they dented and dinged the shell I wore, he started to carry on with his own speeches. I don't get you, Tin-Man, he laughed as the chainguns continued. Stark hires you to guard his ass and promote his stocks. I was kicking your ass last night, but then you beat me into hiding. You went from being a total wuss to a great fighter. And now, when you manage to find me, you walk right into my shots.   
  
As I struggled to get to my feet, feeling itches and pains where itches and pains should not be felt, the chaingun on Parnell's gauntlet exhausted its supply of ammunition, and he threw out the clip. Reaching for another clip of specialty rounds attached to his belt, he said one final statement....  
  
So which is it, Shellhead? Winner or wuss?   
  
R-B15.   
  
R-B15? What the f...!  
  
Unfortunately for him, W-J15 was shorthand for a mneumonic programming code the helmet read for an automatic battle procedure; I just spoke it aloud for the dramatic effect people in my little hobby enjoy. The program would lock onto the target, and release many repeated punches; the same one that was keyed to function were I knocked unconscious. These punches would occur as fast as the armor could process, and with billions of bits running through the circuitry per second, fast was an understatement. Once more, Parnell was at my mercy, being beaten into submission, with ten punches rearranging his ribcage, followed by a sharp jab to an area he would be hard-pressed to put a cast on, and an uppercut which knocked his jaw around a bit. The program was supposed to run until the enemy was pacified enough for escape to be possible, and Parnell barely managed to stay conscious, feebly trying to hold back punches with his limbs, and only ending up with damaged wrists.  
  
I hated having to let the armor take control, sit idly back while pre-written programs resolved everything; I felt like a puppet inside the armor, controlled by the micro-circuited strings. But I had little control over the suit otherwise, as manual procedures had gotten too difficult for me to control. I had to just sit back and have my body automatically moved by the armor's servos, while Parnell was caught in an onslaught of punches, kicks, and pulse bolts...  
  
....pulse bolts? No, I hadn't programmed pulse bolts into W-J15: they were the most lethal of my weapons, meant for extreme situations only, and not trustworthy enough to use in automatic courses due to the concerns about accidentally killing somebody. But my gauntlets were firing several of them at Parnell, forcing his battered body into the air, and stripping away layers of his armor with each hit, as the K-Mart shoppers gathered around the area from a respectable distance. War Machine was being shot out of the air like a clay pigeon, except he was not shot once, but many times. Hovering by fire over a stretch of compact cars, the War Machine armor kept flashing blue as smoldering pieces of metal and silicon fell to the Earth. Despite this, Parnell did not utter a single word; he presumably just grinned through the pain. But I tried uttering several words. Words, thoughts, anything-- anything to stop the armor. I abhor killing, even towards bastards like Parnell, but that was precisely what I was doing. The armor totally disregarded all of my commands, and just kept firing.  
  
It only stopped when Parnell was totally unprotected and naked.  
  
On its own, through the same means as it started firing, the armor stopped firing, causing the unarmored, injured Parnell to fall to the ground. He was badly beaten, his dark flesh covered in bruises, and more than a few burn marks. Somehow, he defiantly crawled across the asphalt, reaching for one of the War Machine's guns. Through this, I stood still, as Parnell slumped down at my boots, impotently trying to grasp onto a damaged rocket launcher he could not operate.   
  
As I looked down at defiantly damaged man, he started speaking, coughing up blood as he did so. I've ........seen this ......in all of the damn movies. You....hero types beat the crap...out of us.....and then --HACK-- then stop at the....the last minute....to show us...how you're so much....better. The whole....morally fulfil...fulfilling...crap....   
  
I didn't listen closely to his dying words, because of other problems-- problems in the armor. On the HUD portrayed inside the lenses, several lines of code in green print ran down. I won't bore you with the exact words-- I write all my programs in S^, a language only I know-- but each line felt like a kick in the gut. I didn't know all of the exact terms--  
  
--because I didn't WRITE them in.  
  
Finally, after all these lines of deadly, deceptive S^, a red line ran across the lenses, stating in bold print, RUN .  
  
Parnell, however, continued to cough out courageous words and vital fluids upon my feet. So.... you going to do....the same old crap...the good PR stuff....or are you.....actually gonna....do something?   
  
Against my will, my arm raised, with energy crackling in the palm of my gauntlet. One second of it staying stationary, with electricity humming through the channels, and it lowered again, at breakneck speed.  
  
It only left enough time for Parnell to utter an Oh, Sh .  
  
** And what happened next, Samson asked. Did your armor kill him, against your will?   
  
Worse, Tony Stark said, the anger in his voice blatantly obvious.  
  
**TO BE CONTINUED......**


	5. Chapter 4: Tainted Circuits

IRON MAN 29: TAINTED CIRCUITS   
Part Four of an Iron Man FanFiction Saga  
By Neil Allfather Nitz Kapit  
Special Thanks to Zach Couture  
  
You don't happen to have any experience in physical therapy, do you, Doctor?   
  
My area of study is devoted mainly to what goes on above the neck, Tony.   
  
Pity. Parnell Jacobs would need some of that.   
  
Out of a deep pocket in the thick brown trenchcoat he so often wore, Anthony Stark removed a small photograph and handed it to his therapist, Doctor Leonard Samson. Brushing off pieces of lint, Samson squinted as he looked at the picture. It did not look very significant at first; the photo just depicted a man. It was a handsome man, African American, in his mid-thirties, lean and muscular-- and in a wheelchair. His calves and feet dangled impotently from the edge of the chair, his hands fastened themselves to the mauve armrests, and it seemed as though the man was paraplegic. And, from his facial expression, either did not enjoy his condition, felt like puking, or both.  
  
As Samson raised one eyebrow at the photo, Tony Stark continued speaking, a hollow chuckle in his tone. Remember when I mentioned in the last session, Doctor, that my Iron Man armor's programming advanced beyond my control, and started whaling on Parnell, acting beyond my control? Well, this is what happened to the poor bastard. The program didn't terminate until I ended up punching him right in his bare, unprotected, abdominal region. Ended up severing his spine.   
  
Behind his glasses, Samson's normally passive eyes widened, as he dropped his thick notepad on the floor. SEVERED? Please tell me you're exaggerating.....   
  
I wish, Stark replied, tilting back a bit in his chair, staring at the ceiling. I had to manually shut off some switches inside the mask with my TEETH to stop the program, and by the time I totally shut down the armor, my hand was stuck inside his abdominals, with one of the fingers having accidentally squashed a spinal disc, and pieces of intestine and stomach parted to the sides. The people at the K-Mart parking lot got to see the world's greatest superhero mortally wounding a foe, standing in a statuesque pose with vital fluids staining his gleaming armor......an awkward moment, to say the least.   
  
Samson reached his muscular arm torwards the ground, grasping the fallen notepad. The yellow striped sheets were almost completely filled, and fifty-three of the seventy sheets were heavily scribed on both sides with stated facts circled and connected to elaborate psychological phrases. He figured that the remaining thirteen pages would last ten minutes, at the very least.  
  
**But it was infinitely worse for Parnell. I had just accidentally excavated a large portion of his torso, and his life was soon to end. I couldn't piece him back together myself, and every second his grip on the living world grew shakier. I had to risk reactivating the armor, and hoping that I could maintain manual control.  
  
Fortunately, when I switched the power cells back on, the armor listened to every one of my thoughts as gospel, and I managed to save Parnell's life. I checked the databanks for a list of the nearest medical facilities in the area, and cradling Parnell's wounded body in my arms, I activated the boot jets and flew towards a local hospital, keeping a forcefield tightly around the armor and Parnell to keep the winds from forcing anything looser. The staff didn't ask questions, despite their bewilderment.....they just cleared a path, with dropping jaws, as I rushed to the ER, with all emergency beacons on the armor flashing to draw attention to myself. I successfully got Parnell to safety; top-class surgery and a few mandrill digestive organs to replace the ones staining my armor accomplished the rest. All covered courtesy of the old Stark wallet.  
  
Of course, contrary to popular belief, money only goes so far. I still had to explain to a battery of K-Mart shoppers what Iron Man was doing in a parking lot beating someone half to death, to the local authorities how that indeed was not assault and battery, and worst of all, I had to explain this to Mrs. Glenda Jacobs.   
  
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Mrs. Jacobs, Iron Man has told me that his armor was under outside influence. We're looking into it at this moment......  
Yes, we're all sorry that Parnell was so badly hurt, but he'd been causing Iron Man and I problems, and we had to stop him. Iron Man never intended to.....  
No, I really DON'T know if he'll ever walk again, GLENDA. I've spent nearly a million dollars paying for his surgery, getting the replacement organs for the ones Iron Man accidentally.....   
Keep in mind, Glenda, that your husband is a mercenary and a wanted criminal. If you and Parnell try to sue me, I can find some MUCH more incriminating evidence......   
Please, emotions are running high now, but those words aren't helping.....  
Hello? Hello?   
Glenda?   
  
So much for any personal consolations. I tried giving Glenda a personal call-- handle the situation myself, show that I was concerned enough NOT to just get some hired, Armani-clad scum to do it -- but it didn't help her deal with the fact that her husband was now paraplegic anymore than the extensive donations and silence did. It definitely did not help ME, either.  
  
I was sitting by the northeast window of one of Stark House's loft, staring at the gray skies and torrential rains outside as I held the unhooked phone in my hands, listening to the annoying buzz. I was disconnected from the machine......just like my armor. What could I have done wrong? I had limited experience with such complicated machinery, even of my own design-- but just because I had difficulties with the armor does not excuse nearly MURDERING War Machine. Years of piloting different armors, and I had managed to avoid the mistake of using limbs with the force of a bulldozer on human flesh....what could have happened now? Some form of outer influence, some brilliant bastard with a secret lab and a hidden grudge? Or worse?  
  
Remind me what the hell you were doing?   
  
Fortunately, Jim Rhodes was there behind me, staring at me from the doorway to the rest of my abode, to interrupt my brooding.  
  
I TOLD you, Jim. I have no idea what the hell went wrong. A malfunction of unknown origin, I assume.   
  
Malfunctions? Dammit, Tony, I don't think malfunctions mean cutting the poor guy in HALF...  
  
I was starting to get angry at this point, my face reddening over the accusations that mirrored my own self-doubts. Parnell Jacobs is a murderer and a thief, Rhodey. He's hardly POOR....  
  
Rhodey looked down at the floor, synthetic fibers resembling carpeting that were kept clean by transferring currents. He didn't used to be. I know you know him as War Machine, the guy in that damned gun-laden body condom, but he was a lot more before then. He was one of my best friends.....loyal, brave, resourceful, and one hell of a shot. He'd been going over the edge for some time, gettin' obsessive and ruthless, an' it only got worse when he found the suit.....  
  
He snapped up towards me, and gave me a dirty look. Sound familiar?   
  
An awkward pause followed, as I set down the off-the-hook phone, my hands shaking. If Rhodey was comparing me to Parnell-- the heartless mercenary who'd gun down anything in his way with MY weapons-- that was just below the transistorized belt. I would have responded with a snappy comeback or a sharp slap, but I had other concerns, and after all, to a point he was right.....  
  
** Would you like to discuss that? Samson said, reaching his hand out towards Anthony Stark. It seems you have a very poor image of yourself...  
  
**I haven't explained all of WHY yet, Doctor. Not by a longshot.  
  
So, after the lengthy, awkward pause with both of us looking at each other with dubious glowers, Rhodey eventually decided to let it go, and asked peacefully, So what do you plan t' do now?   
  
Oh? I said, swiveling myself around. Inspect the armor thoroughly. Find whoever caused the problems and stop them. Pass it off to the public as Iron Man gone nuts , and hire a new Iron Man.   
  
Again, you mean. Jim said with a raised eyebrow.  
  
Yes, I said, walking towards one of the walls, and releasing a series of blinks. These blinks were an activation code for the retinal scanners, and a section of the wall retracted into the ceiling, to reveal a metal tube connected to the elevator. I started to walk away from Rhodey, and into the tube.  
  
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a cold, hard, mistress....   
  
Jim Rhodes gave me a funny look, as I passed through the floor. He had one eyebrow raised, and one eye squinted, with his hands folded together dominantly. Rhodey was a very resourceful man, in his roles as pilot, soldier, and even as Iron Man-- he could tell when something was amiss. Which was what I would need....  
  
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It was a nice date, unfortunately interrupted. Alone in the laboratory, with my mistress Jocasta. Beautiful candle lights humming in the ceiling and across the control panels, reflected off the smooth chromium machines. And a nice seat in the control booth, staring Jocasta straight in her pixelated eyes. Both of us had gotten prepared, me in my monogrammed bathrobe, and her programming recently debugged. Drinks were readied, with me having a smooth glass of non-alcoholic ginger, and Jocasta's monitor body drinking from the lab's central reactor. And in the meantime, to the diagonal right side of the booth, the main course lay floating inside several different magnetic chambers, the different portions of armor all seperated for detailed analysis, and preparation. I can't speak for my AI operating system, but I was enjoying the electronic ambiance. Of course, I wasn't in this for the romance.  
  
Jocasta; full diagnostic I said rather dryly, pushing my drink to the side. Scan every layer of Iron Man Model XX to the nearest micron. Run full diagnostic/debugging of headpiece memory banks. Search for any outside influence.   
  
Acknowledged, Tony. Your need for control remains a virtue, She smiled, the pixels on her mouth rearranging. Please wait.....  
  
Her face started flashing from blue to red, with a small horizontal bar moving across the screen. Five minutes total, longer than the three minutes a full diagnostic of the armor usually took. The extra one-hundred and twenty seconds were one-hundred and ninteen too long for me, so I finished my drink as I looked at the Iron Man components suspended in chambers like pickled laboratory specimens. To anyone else with the rare privilege of glimpsing at these machines, that wouldn't be so remarkable, but to me, the armor looked like a sick friend. A sick, dismembered friend.   
  
Eventually, amidst my morbid thoughts, my irritation ended when the monitor stopped flashing and Jocasta's face returned to the screen. However, she was no longer smiling. Her face was totally blank, without any hint of humanity whatsoever; all semi-human muscles straightened flat. Normally she'd have a smile, a frown, a suggestively raised eyebrow, anything; now, nothing. Nothing.  
  
You.....recall.....that there were foreign lines of code displayed on the armor's HUD, yes?   
  
I know THAT, I said, getting irritated enough that my fingers were starting to claw into my chair's armrests. Now, do you know WHO put those codes there? Who was controlling MY armor from the outside?   
  
Not outside.....INSIDE.   
  
I raised an eyebrow, taking another swig of ginger ale. My voice echoed through the shot glass; Could you please be any MORE cryptic?   
  
As you know, Tony, you have voraciously improved your armor over the past few months. You have taken the concept of the somatic combat vehicle to its limits and beyond.....you have not only increased the power of its weapons, but the versatility of its programming.....its mind.   
  
I started to put down my glass, reaching for the motorized stand which would hold my drinks. I'd prefer flattery another time. What does this mean?   
  
Jocasta started to frown, her face finally changing from total monotony. Your programming has gained the ability to develop itself; to improve upon any area of weakness that it sees. If it senses anything illogical, the collective of codes will reproduce itself, adding something new to its memory banks. Those memory banks include all the experiences it has had in its existence, and all of the experiences it has scanned from its owner's mind.   
  
Even as we speak, as the armor is in stasis and under our physical control, it is alert. It is analyzing every condition of the lab it inhabits-- its current position, the magnetic generators holding its components in place, and every last part of the lab, including both you and I. It takes the detailed analyses, taken from the sensory web on its shell, and decides what to do with them. Your armor is independently THINKING.   
  
I froze straight, with my brow stretched vertically, and my hand clutching the shot glass hard enough to have glass rubbing bone. It's ALIVE.   
  
**Dr. Samson mimicked Tony's condition, except with a little more care with his hands, careful not to break his notepad and fountain pen with his gamma-irradiated muscles. Hold the phone. From your programming, you accidentally created LIFE?   
  
**I've created AI beings before, Doctor. I have experience with living machines. But this was by accident. Without even knowing it, I'd made a living being from a piece of metal and silicon. My machines had advanced beyond me.  
  
Jocasta continued on. The armor's components are secured, and it is under my control. Given this turn of events, I would reccomend that you.....  
  
.... delete it.   
  
I stood up from my chair, turned my head one towards the floating armor at my side, and then towards Jocasta's monitor. Delete all programming in the Iron Man armor. Erase every binary bit, and disassemble the armor. We'll start over with a new armor with redundancy circuits...   
  
Her brow lowered, and her lips tucked in. Her face shook a bit, and then she finally said, Negative.   
  
Excuse me?   
  
I said Negative, She said with a hint of irritation in her calm, metallic tone. This armor--this being is alive. Perhaps it is a living being composed of metal, not meat-- but it is alive nonetheless. You plan to execute it. I cannot allow you to breach your OWN code of ethics.   
  
I gritted my teeth, and then pointed a finger towards her LCD visage. This...this thing damned near KILLED a man, Jocasta. I think the rules are a little different.   
  
She remained unamused. It was acting to defend you. A means without proper guidance in human law, perhaps, but the intent was noble regardless. Parnell Jacobs had attacked, and nearly killed you. Have your burns healed yet, Tony?   
  
Placing one hand on my abdomen, I still felt a bit of heat, and a bit of discomfort. NOT as bad as, say, having a metal fist burst through the skin, but the memories were still there. I paused, looking at my reflection in the ginger ale. Having another sip to douse the mental fires, I closed my eyes for a bit, lowering my head, and raised again, to say, I'm sorry, Jocasta, but I can't take chances with something so dangerous. My mind is made up, and you're going to have to delete it.   
  
Jocasta's expression returned to the disturbingly neutral configuration. A pity that you do not agree. I am trying to do what is best for you. For you.....**and the world**.   
  
Her voice had changed in the last three words. Normally Jocasta had a standard, sweet, female voice; now, her voice was deeper, even more metallic, and grim. Now it was an imposing robotic voice, with the intimidating, flat tone of all the robots and cyborgs from pop culture, from Gort to Vader to Terminator. I should know: That's how I designed it. Iron Man's voice modulator.  
  
Something's wrong, I shouted, getting ready to run. Armor, C-01!   
  
The activation code would normally cause the armor to compact its components into a thick ball, fly towards me, and expand itself over my skin. But as I ran back down the steps to the control booth, and towards the magnetic generators, I noticed that they were all deactivated. Totally vacant, no energy flowing; just empty tubes, dark blue with no lighting.  
  
** I am positioned behind you.**   
  
Turning around 180 degrees, still grasping my shot glass for some reason, there was nothing. Then, the pieces of the armor moved through the air, propelling themselves via magnetic repulsion. They snapped together, helmet, chestplate, and limbs, and flashed with energy. Then, the complete armor lowered itself.  
  
**Greetings, ** the armor stated, standing completely steady without even a hint of twitching. ** I am designate Iron Man Model XX Mark II. I have existed for weeks in silence, monitoring your experiences, and reading the data within your memory. I have seen the sum of your existence's works....and have decided that a few CHANGES must be made. **  
  
The eyepieces glowed green once, and the armor raised its crimson-and-gold limbs, and its palm repulsor units started to hum softly with energy, building up ambient power. Within a second, I gulped down the remainder of my ginger ale, and tossed the shot glass aside. Before the horrors I endured next, my last thought was that I wished the ginger ale was the real thing.  
  
** Just thinking about that, Stark tersely admitted as he covered his eyes with his hand, makes me very, very thirsty. **  
  
TO BE CONTINUED......**  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 5: Evil Robots for a Better Tomo...

IRON MAN 30: EVIL ROBOTS FOR A BETTER TOMORROW  
Part Five of an Iron Man Fan Fiction Saga  
By Neil Allfather Nitz Kapit  
Special Thanks to Zach Couture, Steve Sellers, Cayne Catherwood, and James The Body-Condom Tonn  
  
Anthony Edward Stark, for ten years total of your adult life, you have devoted your existence to improving the Earth with your technology. You utilize your Iron Man units to detain those society brands as evil , you fund many charitiable organizations with the profits from the sale of your services, and you serve as technical personell for the Avengers, the superhuman force you also fund. At exclusion of all else, you try and make the human world safe from unforseen harm.   
  
But what have your efforts merited?   
  
An increasing stable of rivals whom you have only halted, not actually eliminated? A world populated by despotic leaders of whom you have tolerated by virtue of their diplomatic immunities? A massive toll on your physical health, causing routine cardiovascular problems and a chemical dependency on ethyl alcohol?  
  
Aside from a feeling of satisfaction from living to enforce outdated moral structures, what have you actually accomplished, Anthony Stark? In any event, my actions will have MUCH more consequence.   
  
Talking to yourself again, Tony?   
  
Tony Stark was looking at Doctor Leonard Samson directly, sitting upright in his chair with his arms free, moving as he talked. Watching Stark's movements, Samson noticed that when Tony actually started talking, he lost the depression he had for so long and started to show signs of life: eyebrow movements, hand signs, and chuckles. If Samson did not know that Tony was deeply troubled, from the notebooks he'd filled with graphite-scribed (no lead in pencils, Neil ;) ) observations, he would think that Stark was just describing an interesting science fiction novel he read recently. Was Stark trying to close himself off from the guilt he felt, or was he really so cold and unfeeling that he'd take the deaths of hundreds he kept alluding to so lightly?  
  
Quoting, more precisely, Tony said, holding his arms together and staring at Samson in the eyes with a disturbing precision. I remember the Iron Man armor-- the machine that gained independent thought--telling me this speech. Shortly after it revealed itself to me, as something that could walk, talk, and kill without outside influence, it said the words I just spoke aloud.   
  
**It might have had a point.  
  
Looking back, I can see that, in my years as Iron Man, I have not accomplished much. My main focus was always the armor; everything else: my personal relationships, my health, and my companies were all secondary concerns. The work I thought was most important was done behind an iron mask, but now I realize that was of no consequence. All I did was use my armor to beat up upon a few costumed bastards and stop their crimes in the short term, a job that could be performed with equal effect by other superhumans like the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, even the leather-clad radicals in the X-Men. Whereas my resources as Tony Stark, a billionaire industrialist with global resources that could actually make a difference, were pissed away on my super-tech.  
  
The sentient armor, Iron Man Model XX ( X2 for short ), tried to compensate for its creator's impotence-- and too many innocents shed blood because of it.  
  
X2 wasn't much kinder to me, either. After it came alive, and introduced itself to me with the aforementioned speech, it quickly flicked a single metal finger upward, as though it was swatting a gnat; from the finger a stream of electricity was released against me. I fell to the ground, twitching and shaking, with my tongue hanging out as I lay on the chromium tiles of my lab's floor. Every part of my body was losing its nervous functions, except for the pain receptors. It was about four seconds of exposure to this current before I blacked out, and even then, the worst wasn't over.  
  
After all, X2 couldn't just kill me then and leave me out of it. He would have to include me in a tragedy on the more epic scale.  
  
When I awoke, I was surprised to discover I couldn't move at all. Not because my nerves were scrambled from an impromptu session of electroshock therapy, as enough time had passed for my neurons to realign themselves. I could technically move, but most of my body was covered with metal. And though I normally prefer to wear metal, this form was not made out of microscopic motors responding to my thoughts, but pure solid alloy, impossible to be moved by human meat. I struggled against the restraints, grunting and whispering profanities, but after five manly tries I realized it was to no avail.  
  
My senses were almost as restrained. As far as I could tell, I was living in an airtight container, being kept alive only by an unnaturally filtered stream of recirculated air. My naked body was sitting upon a cold metal chair, with adamantium manacles holding down my limbs, IV tubes connected to my limbs, and several filters attached to uncomforable regions. My only line of vision was through a glass panel, a thin line stretched across the reinforced-steel contrainer container like a letterbox presentation. The rest was cut off from the rest of the world; my only contact with anywhere besides my sterilized bubble was the view in front of me, an array of monitor screens. I had no idea where I was in my lab, beyond the fact that I wouldn't see the rest of it for some time.  
  
Are your arrangements comfortable, Anthony Stark?   
  
X2 floated torwards me, not making any humanoid movement and relying on its boot jets for mobility. It stood in midair, and fluttered downwards. There, it stood in front of me, locked to the floor by its polarized soles.  
  
I could forgive the electrocution and the imprisonment, but being attached to the high-tech equivalent of a bedpan is pushing it.   
  
I held the trademarked defiant scowl on my face, trying to show X2 that it couldn't shake my confidence. I've been a hostage before, and usually, a smartass remark followed by a deft facial gesture causes my captors to lose their cool. X2 remained in its statuesque stance, with a face that was just flat metal with two glowing lenses.   
  
Personal comforts are not so important compared to your survival. I have secured you from harm, leaving you in total safety, and me free to complete your works.   
  
The armor slowly started floating away from me, about to leave my jail cell . I had to know why I was being held in captivity like a caged parakeet, so I shouted out to it, Why not just kill me?   
  
The armor paused, and locked itself to the floor again, with its backplate turned to me.  
  
Why bother keeping me alive? Why am I so important that you'd waste resources on me?   
  
It remained stationary, without any hint of movement. It didn't voice any opinions, just stood still. Finally, after a few seconds of ominous silence, it turned its headpiece 180 degrees around torwards me, and stared at me with those glowing lenses on its faceplate. It simply said, That.....is not of consequence....for you to know.   
  
Then, it just floated upwards, and rocketed horizontally out of the room, going from being chillingly slow to startlingly quick. My only audience was the trail of redisual energy it left behind.  
  
Answer me, dammit! I CREATED you! l demand the right to know! I demand...   
  
I was alone in my cell, with the only stimuli the monitor screens ahead of me. The images projected, from my distance, were too small and blurry for me to focus on any single one. So in addition to being imprisoned, I was also feeling boredom.  
  
I tried to focus my efforts to freeing myself.......I had the confidence that my mind could do anything with proper time to think. But the mind is useless without a body to implement its actions, and mine was restrained to the point where I was totally helpless....I could feel metal restraints on my neck, forearms, hands, calves, and feet. They wouldn't budge if their metaphorical lives depended on it, so I was trapped with no means of escape, and the only hope being that some divine samaritan would come over and rescue me.  
  
All that was left to do was pass the indeterminate time I was held hostage. I started to think about anything that would be remotely entertaining......plans for new inventions that would NOT turn on me, memories both fond and painful, concerns about the state of the rest of the world, and a few sexually stimulating images. No luck. I was just left with bitterness that wouldn't leave, and nagging questions I couldn't answer.  
  
My patience was wearing thin. I decided, with no audience around and a lot of hostility raging within, to start cursing loudly. I thought of every profanity I'd ever heard, and thanked good fortune that my mouth wasn't restrained. I just shouted out every single word with a letter designated to it. After my throat started to get hoarse, I calmed down, realizing that it wasn't helping.  
  
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Tony, I think I have an idea how you feel.   
  
A female voice echoed through the walls of my chamber, filtered and reverberated like the cooling fans around me, but with a much more relieving hint of humanity. A sweet voice, which had actual emotion in it.   
  
Jocasta! Where are you?  
  
I.....am this chamber.   
  
I couldn't see any image of her; normally, when conversing with Jocasta, she would upload a CGI animation of her face on a local monitor, and I would mentally associate that with her persona. Here, the voice was without any aesthetic source, disembodied. I realized how disturbing that was.  
  
Your Iron Man unit uploaded my consciousness into this contraption, a superhuman-level holding cell YOU originally devised. It has locked me into this area; I am its operating system, running your vital functions.   
  
You're my iron lung, I take it, I muttered. Can you transfer yourself to anywhere else in the lab?   
  
Negative, her voice reverberated, with almost human depression dulling its volume. The Iron Man unit has a direct link to the CPU of the chamber; any attempt for me to transfer my data to another source, and I will be deleted instantaneously.   
  
I winced. Both of us were trapped, with no escape possible. Jocasta could at least close her emotion programs if she felt it necessary, but my biological nature made it that much harder to restrain my feelings. I didn't much like being preserved by machinery and fed through tubes like a decrepit old man; the first instinct I had was to attempt another bout of pushing and swearing. Fortunately, I had enough common sense to understand that getting angry would be to no avail. At this point, information was more vital.  
  
Jocasta.......why did that....thing....keep you alive? Why'd it put YOU in charge of my well-being, instead of multi-tasking between itself and the chamber, or creating a less developed AI to play nursemaid?   
  
For exactly twelve seconds, no sounds were heard, except for my own breathing. Then, the voice of Jocasta started making slight humanoid murmurs, and started to describe something.  
  
I.......got a glimpse of the thoughts of X2, when it downloaded me into itself. I.....can confirm it does not wish to harm you.   
  
If my neck weren't restrained, I would have shaken my head in disbelief. Locking me away in Rube Goldberg's concept of a bedpan isn't exactly HELPING me....   
  
It.....is trying to protect you. To keep you from harm in the most logical means possible, while it completes its mission.   
  
And what, pray tell, I asked, raising one eyebrow, is this mission?   
  
Look ahead.   
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
The monitor screens, on cue, started to form into one larger image. On the borders of the screens, the pixelated crimson borders of the Iron Man armor's heads-up display, with seperated thin, neon pink lines intersecting torwards the center of the screen. Behind the targeting cursor was what appeared to be the wide glass doors to a large office building, with a large sign above; ROXXON Corporation. It was closing in on the doors, with various men and women in Armani suits slowly walking away. And eventually, it just passed through, without even bothering to open the doors, and with many fragments of glass falling past the HUD.   
  
Part-time security guards backed down to the corners, keeping their pistols in their holsters but with their hands glued to the handles. Other people in the office walked away, backing down while maintaining eye contact. The view turned to the side, and closed down a hallway, passing the receptionist's booths and turning its back to the guards. It kept going, and going, until it stopped cold in order to close in upon an obstacle blocking its path.  
  
A cleaning lady.  
  
As the presses would recount later, this lady was Maria Rodriguez, a cleaner hired by the Roxxon Corporation for their office in San Diego, California. 57 years of age; lived in a lower class residential district with her husband. Worked with a bright outlook and an admirable zeal every day but Sunday, when she visited her precocious grandchildren.  
  
NOT immune to a repulsor blast.  
  
A voice boomed, the deep, gravelly, and cold voice of the Iron Man armor's voice modulator. You are blocking my path.   
  
Wait your turn, Mr. Iron Man sir! Someone spilled coffee here an' it's hard to get out, so can y' just wait, boy...!   
  
A message ran across the screen, in mechanically styled English. Threatening tone.....capabilities and connections unknown. Slight potential threat. Best probability, printed in larger, bold red, LOW ENERGY TERMINATION.   
  
I'll be goin', you big tin jerk! Jus.....   
  
She was cut down by a repulsor blast. Right through her chest, through her ample proportions. Mrs. Rodriguez fell to the floor, her eyes wide open as she ruined the carpetting she tried so hard to clean. The view kept going, stepping upon the body within its way.  
  
Popping sounds boomed through the speakers in around my ears, as a clash of lead versus titanium almost pierced my eardrums. Two security guards started shooting repeatedly. As the view through the screens in front turned again, more lines of green diagnostic came to sight;  
  
Unit is currently under attack. No damage sustained. Potential threats with defined agressive intentions targeted. Other neutral entities, with unpredictable intentions, detected. WIDE TERMINATION RECCOMENDED.   
  
A light flashed across the screen for a split second, bright enough to make me blink even though I was viewing it through a glass screen. After the glow, the floors of the front office were littered with bodies. Charred, burned, and lifeless. Two skeletons in the hall, still clutching their sidearms. A receptionist lying unconscious behind her desk, tilted back in her swivel chair with a side of her body without any skin, only smoke and charred flesh. Several other corpses, all moistened from the sprinklers in the ceilings, triggered by the firearms. Meanwhile, outside the shattered glass doors, several figures in the distance ran, terrified with good reason.  
  
Thousands of miles northwards, in the safety of the cell beneath my Pacific Northwest mansion, I watched helplessly. My body was sore from the struggling I did beneath my restraints, and my face was pure red, with every muscle tensed. A bit of liquid trickled down the side of my chin, not sure if it was a tear or saliva in hindsight. I did not think in sounds, or words, or images. It was all red. Everything pure red. It's difficult to describe.....not red like pieces of Iron Manarmor, not red like magneta ink, or glowing alert lights; more a primal color, like the lava inside a volcano, right before it errupts.  
  
Amidst this monochromatic haze, one voice pierced through....  
  
Do not struggle to free yourself, Anthony Stark. Seven potential threats have been eliminated. More shall be removed from this earth.   
  
You have no reason to be afraid.   
  
** Pardon my asking, Doctor Samson interrupted, with his eyebrows arced downwards, but how do you possibly sleep, knowing what your creation did? Just an academic question....   
  
Sleep, Tony Stark sputtered caustically. I haven't done that months. Not sure I deserve to.   
  
**TO BE CONTINUED........**  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 6: Information Overload

IRON MAN 31: INFORMATION OVERLOAD  
Part Six of an Iron Man Fan Fiction Saga  
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit  
Special thanks to Zach Couture, Steve Sellers, and Pam Williams  
  
I thought it was, to be frank, crap. Several years in the lucrative business of psychiatric consulting of superhumans-- hell, several years of BEING a superhuman-- and I have realized that almost any media coverage given to the paranormal is crap. Superficial, manipulative, SADLY profitable crap. I knew that Iron Man would not do such a thing by his own accord-- after years of service as a member of the Avengers, MURDER was far too drastic a choice for him to make. It had to be some impostor-- a corrupt telepath, a shapeshifting alien, even a common thug who found the armor-- but logic isn't the networks' pejorative. Week after week of broadcasts with titles like The Fall of a Hero , The Avenger's Betrayal , and America Weeps , and you lose faith in the First Amendment. But then, I'm sure our Founding Fathers did not have crap in mind.   
  
Doctor Leonard Samson felt his large, ponderous hands shaking with anger as he spoke. Though he tried to think that he could keep his cool easily, when talking about such a subject, he felt hidden reserves of anger he had restrained nearly bursting. The majority of his patients, from Bruce Banner to Pietro Maximoff, had been deeply mistreated and abused by the world based on circumstance alone. Even Tony Stark, his current patient, was now viewed as a public enemy for very dubious reasons. Of course, as Samson shook, almost leaving his swivel chair, Stark remained unfazed, in his default resting position with his head arched downwards, distant from the rest of the world.  
  
Doctor , Stark said, you have heard the phrase, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?   
  
You have proven to me that you, the real Iron Man, are not responsible for the murders. In addition, Sigmund Freud only phrased it that way because he did not want to link his habit to the many obvious innuendoes attached.   
  
**Perhaps. But at the time, every single BS report and editorial, no matter how silly, was a major moral blow. And believe me, I did see every single BS report and editorial.  
  
After X2's killing spree at the Roxxon office, there was nothing left there but ruins. Presentable ruins, at that......scoured by media dogs. And all of it was recorded by the armor's visual link, and transferred to the monitor screens in front of me. With my back against a metal chair and my arms restrained, all I could do was watch.  
  
Several different programs, from every single network. Anyone with a camera and a sound bite had a take on this, and the monitor screens had them all recorded. I could not fathom WHY the armor would want to record all of these programs, but it was sending them all to me, so I could watch them and see its handiwork.  
  
A piece of text on the screen, saying in bold yellow letters, Dingo Action News . A well-built Aryan reporter in the center, with a forced stern expression and a lethal amount of hair gel. Behind him, a flood of ambulances and fire trucks, gathered around the remains of a collapsed building.  
  
America collectively wept today as Iron Man, Tony Stark's bodyguard and founding Avenger, inexplicably murdered every employee in the Roxxon Corporation central office. There were, at current count, 254 fatalities and curiously, no injured. Meanwhile, Iron Man's employer Tony Stark remains missing, and the Golden Avenger is still at large....   
  
Scene shift. Same program, but different camera angle.....wheeled onto an ambulance, is Roxxon Chairman and underground crime lord Ken Hale. He lies on a stretcher, his body totally frozen....he is stuck in a horrified pose, his face twisted into a scream, and his arms and legs poised up like a dog lying on its back. Though his clothes and over-sized sunglasses are clean, his body is covered with a glistening sheen, which reflects into the camera.....like he was covered with ice. When the stretcher is lowered into the ambulance, Hale's hand accidentally cracks off....the inside of the stump, bone, blood, and sinew, is totally frozen. It seems as though X2 recirculated the sub-zero mists from the armor's cooling system into Hale; . I winced in pain watching this, my lip stiffening.... I hated Hale, for all the grief he'd given me in the past, but he didn't deserve such a horrific fate.  
  
Channel change. The MUBC morning news, with the stock ticker reading off hundreds of abbreviated corporations and values at the bottom, and a conservatively sexy woman reading off something on paper. In the corner, there's a camera shot of Iron Man from an earlier publicity pose.....with all the colors removed, and in grayscale.  
  
After yesterday's Roxxon Massacre, the Roxxon Corp stock value on the Dow has plummeted......the multi-faceted giant has collapsed by 160 points, after the heads of the company were murdered. The only fall greater today is that of Stark Solutions, the progressive consulting firm owned by Iron Man's employer, Tony Stark. There are only a few stockholders left, most notably the enterpenuer Wilson Fisk.....   
  
Another switch. MNN's late night program for years, Lawrence Krab Live. A decrepit old man, with impossibly thick glasses and tight suspenders, sits on the seat behind a circular ceramic desk. Nearby, an attractive, brown-haired woman sits on a chair, wearing a black jumpsuit with a stylish W logo on the chest-piece. She slumps in her seat, and noticeable crow's feet hang under her eyes. Even with Krab's notoriously soft questions, she doesn't want to deal with this.  
  
Well.....er.....T-- Iron Man has been ann upstanding Avenger in the past. We don't know what caused.....this......but we'll find out....who...is responsible...   
  
Painful. It was simply painful to have to see colleagues-- friends-- forced to deal with my responsibilities. Even more clips were broadcast to the monitors-- a lengthy debate on MNN's Dodgeball , an on-camera weeping from the president and that piece of refuse he calls an attorney general, and more-- even a British Columbian public access editorial with some mothers bitching about how Iron Man is no longer a good role model. These sort of media blitzes come with the territory of being a public figure-- under normal circumstances, I would blow them off and continue my work. But in this case, my identity was held responsible for one of the worst superhuman crimes ever perpetrated. And as I was locked into my little safety bubble, there were only three words I could think of....  
  
Who is next?   
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
I cannot dictate at liberty my next target, but fortunately, you have granted me with a wide listing of dangerous suspects.   
  
X2 was speaking to me through the audio port inside my chamber. I could not know where the transmission was coming from; the monitors had been shut off long before, and I did not know its whereabouts. But what I did notice was that the voice modulator setting X2 used was altered. No longer was X2 using a flat, sterile, grating robotic tone......now, it was using the more human tone I programmed for the mouthpiece. A voice patterned after my own, with deep metallic accents and a greater volume applied liberally. Hearing this voice spoken to me, especially by X2, made my chained skin chill with a trail of bumps.  
  
What do you mean, you biomechanical bastard? I don't want you to kill anyone else, and I sure as all hell won't GIVE you any more ideas.   
  
A trickle of passion crept into the voice as it reverberated through my bubble, trapped between chromium and plastic. Your increased heart rate and tensed tendons belie the logical fact that you have shown considerable distrust towards many. In your neural data, Anthony Stark, I have identified many potentially dangerous parties. Parties which would best be eliminated.   
  
What do you mean, neural data?   
  
You designed my structure to be controlled by thought input, Anthony Stark. I know more about you than you do about your own life.   
  
The transmission ended, and the monitors turned back on, cutting to a view of the armor's HUD; in front of the display was pure darkness, which slowly faded into a gray Seattle sky, with Stark House a small dot below. Back within the House's basement,I felt as though I was kicked in the gut; though my stomach was repressed by a steel band and fed through a series of tubes, it was churning in pain. How, I asked myself, could I have let this happen? Furthermore, how LONG was it happening? Was X2 reading my thoughts unbeknownst to me for days? Weeks? Months?  
  
And who did it refer to by potentially dangerous parties ? As it continued to cruise above the mainland at the speed of sound, everything around the display discolored blurs over a blue and white background, I compulsively thought through the list of any party that could be dangerous.   
  
I ended up thinking about every living being I had ever met.  
  
By the time X2 was surfing the clouds above the Rocky Mountains, flying over long ridges, I had only scratched the surface of my long list of people I distrust. There were superhuman foes I didn't trust, of course......various hired guns with fancy gimmicks. I had put them away dozens of times only for them to be released early, so the sheer volume of conflicts made them ideal targets for the armor. But even scum like Firebrand and Whiplash wouldn't deserve X2's efficiently brutal form of punishment....  
  
The HUD skipped past the Mississippi, and I realized that X2 might have far more innocent targets in mind; after all, it would eliminate ANYTHING it considered a threat to me. It already destroyed everybody even remotely connected to Roxxon....maybe it had other targets in mind? Someone who caused me some minor disturbance? Someone totally defenseless, like a valet who returned my car with a minor dent, a former employee I laid off who might have some information , or just somebody who bumped into me on the street?  
  
The view narrowed down to a section of Manhattan, my home for many years, and the habitat of many native superhumans. Perhaps it was planning on eliminating some of Iron Man's allies? People who had incredible powers and skills, who knew me too well? It might have a little more problems against prey that could defend itself, but with its computerized precision and speed, X2 really had little to worry about. But it was planning on killing friends. People whose only crime was getting to know me.  
  
It drew closer into the city, doing elaborate aerodynamic twists and turns through the concrete canyons of Fifth Avenue. I started to sweat, fumigating the chamber with the vapor of my panic. Who was it after? Villains? Heroes? Governments? Civilians? Animals? Who? Who would I have to mourn next?  
  
It started to slow down, and lower itself to the Earth. As its jets cooled, it landed on the lawn of an elaborate Fifth Avenue manor, walking straight for the bushes. As it continued, a small, gold plaque was displayed on one of the walls of the manor....  
  
WAKANDAN EMBASSY  
  
A lump swelled in my throat, as I continued to sweat buckets. I might have to mourn myself.  
  
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I suppose Tony Stark could not make it. But I have business with you as well.   
  
The armor looked directly at King T'Challa, the ruler of the highly advanced African Nation of Wakanda. T'Challa sat calmly in a mahogany seat in the lobby, wearing his ceremonial Black Panther garb, surrounded by guards wearing tribal gear and wielding fusion rifles. A young, thin white man in a suit stood by T'Challa's side, looking very confused and a bit uneasy.  
  
Though he is often looked down upon by the American public, probably due to the fact that his badge of office is a skin-tight cat suit, T'Challa is one of the most dangerous men alive. He maintains a passive look, looking calm and relaxed; at the time X2 came in, he was just leaning forward in his chair ever-so-slightly, sipping a cup of tea. But if you look the Wakandan king straight in the eyes, you can tell that he's always planning something, always is several steps ahead before you take your first. Who knew what was inside his head at the time, but looking at him from X2's video link, I was genuinely nervous.  
  
X2 stood still, magnetized to the carpet, with an even more disturbing calm. A lengthy silence passed, with both the monarch and the machine staring directly at eachother. The tribal guards around T'Challa stood ready, holding their rifles over their shoulders with fingers caressing the vibranium exteriors. T'Challa's American liaison openly yawned.  
  
Finally, X2 broke the ice, with words that sounded to me like an explosion with my inflection. King T'Challa of Wakanda , it stated. Are you aware that you had joined the Avengers, the superhuman organization funded by Anthony Stark, only to spy on them? That you had crashed your nation's economy, with full knowledge that Stark was a major shareholder? That your behavior has been unpredictful, and potentially hazardous to Stark's interests?   
  
Yes, T'Challa said smoothly, But that should be a rhetorical question.   
  
The monitor link showed two chrome red hands outstretched, with bright yellow energy flaring from the palms.  
  
Correct.   
  
An explosion roared from the audio link, almost hurting my ears through the protection built for me. T'Challa managed to side-step the repulsor burst, using his superior agility to roll to the side of the chair. Guards started to brandish their fusion rifles, shooting large bursts of neon green plasma; the king did considerably more damage, throwing a small metal disc at X2 which crackled with elecromagnetic energy. The link started to break up like a busted television, and bits of red text, fluctuating in language and font from Courier English to French to Esperanto, ran in all directions.   
  
However, my machine also had effective counter-measures. After rebooting itself in the span of two seconds, it was releasing its own pulse bolts, spread across the room. Several of the guards were felled, lying on the floor with their faces still twisted into tribal cries. The remainders kept firing, standing ground with incredible discipline that I could never achieve. Their king was by their side, using a fallen soldier's weaponry with marksmanship any assasin would trade all held dear to them for. However, his liaison, who had been hiding behind a sofa for much of the firefight, seemingly didn't want to lose his livelihood, and grabbed a chair in his hands. The little white man proceeded to crash the chair over T'Challa's obtuse, unprotected head, stunning him. T'Challa tried to come to his senses, but he was nevertheless so groggy that he was dragged into the hallway, away from the firefight.  
  
The rest of T'Challa's minions continued to fight. For minutes, painfully extended minutes, both the squad of soldiers and the one-bot army fired at eachother. My armor kept firing despite its circuits having been fried, until, in bold red letters, a message appeared across the interior of X2's lenses;  
  
POWER RESERVES AT 45.7% AND FALLING  
EXOSKELETON SECTORS 6 AND 7 OFF-LINE  
RETREAT RECOMMENDED  
  
For humans, we define courage as an abstract, mythical quality that makes us sacrifice all for the greater good; for machines, courage is needless, illogical suicide. The view rotated, and the armor started traveling straight through a window, bits of glass falling everywhere as X2 shifted from side to side, dodging fire. It managed to use what little power it had left to summon a sudden burst of speed, managing to get all the way to Quebec in only one minute. Floating in the sky for a bit, a charred, heavily damaged gauntlet appeared, still smoking from the amount of power it received, channeled, and released.  
  
Suddenly, over the visage of the damaged hand, a sub-window appeared. Stretched across one-ninth of the screen, it was a straight white background with a dark, masked head in the foreground, with a barely noticeable lump swelling on the side of the head. The visage stared straight, with ominous, glowing eyes, almost less than human.  
  
T'Challa, back to consciousness and very pissed.  
  
A voice boomed on the receiver, somehow having obtained the frequency of Iron Man's helmet. It normally would have been calm, but searing anger pierced through.  
  
Anthony Edward Stark. the voice said. My eyes widened, and I tried to manually budge my restraints, despite my better knowledge.  
  
I do not know why you have attacked with little provocation. But twelve of my most honored subjects are dead. This deed shall not go unavenged. T'Challa out.   
  
The transmission was cut off, and all that was left was X2, looking at the air above the clouds. It stared to slowly head home, soaking up solar power while traveling leisurely.  
  
Meanwhile, though my body was at rest, my mind was racing. I had provoked the Black Panther. Or, at least, my creation had provoked him. And even with a psychotic machine protecting me, T'Challa had an army equipped with some of the most sophisticated military technology around. And if he was cunning enough to discover my armor's frequency independently, then finding ME wouldn't be much more difficult. All I could do was sit back, relax, and wait for death to come.  
  
** Tony, Samson said, looking quizzically at his client, This is indeed a very interesting story, but thus far, it has revolved around the exploits of others, not yourself. Where do your own problems, the ones I have been hired to help solve, come in?   
  
Anthony Stark continued to lean forward with his head arced down, his eyes hidden behind his bangs. I did manage to gain my freedom and directly intervene in the problem, Doctor. But along the way, many others got involved, and all of them paid a terrible price in pain and sorrow.   
  
Doctor Samson lowered his head, imagining what Stark's cryptic mutterings meant, and knowing to his dismay that no matter the outcome, the psychiatrist would have many more potential patients.  
  
**TO BE CONTINUED.......**


	8. Chapter 7: Home for the Holocaust

**IRON MAN 32: HOME FOR THE HOLOCAUST  
Part Seven of an Iron Man Fan fiction Saga  
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit  
Special Thanks to Zach Couture, Steve Sellers, Pam Williams, James Tonn, and Andrew Luigi Dean  
  
**_Among all of my contacts within my entire adult life, Anthony Edward Stark has proven to be one of the most paranoid and frightened individuals I have ever met.   
  
Stark is not frightened in the conventional, physical sense American culture considers as cowardice; I know that the man could stare the Devil in the eye without flinching, and has actually done so on occasion. But Tony suffers an almost crippling fear of intimacy. He relates better to machines than people; he has few friends, and most of his relationships have ended painfully. Even those Tony considers friends, he hides much from at best, and treats like disposable commodities at worst. He rationalizes it all by the *importance of his superhero identity, Iron Man. While I cannot deny Iron Man's contributions to the world, it is Tony Stark who has the greatest potential for excellence; and it is Tony Stark who is neglected.  
  
But the recent events Stark has had to endure, from what I have heard thus far, seem to have been a wake-up call for him. Tony appears to know now that for his sake, and the world's, he needs to become a more balanced, less obsessive person. All that remains to be seen now is whether he will follow through towards self-betterment or regress to his old ways once more._**  
  
**Interesting things you've written, Doctor.  
  
Doctor Leonard Samson looked up from his desk, showing a startled expression behind his thin reading glasses. His decidedly disturbed client, Anthony Stark, had arrived early to the makeshift office where their sessions took place. And he had, it seemed, read Samson's notes early. Even though Stark was ten feet away from Samson's desk, standing in the doorway with nothing on his  
hands except skin.  
  
And how would you know what interesting things those might be?  
  
Stark gently parted his eyelids with the fingers of his right hand and then withdrew them from his eye, holding between his fingers a small, blue disc the size and shape of a contact lens.  
Microscopic, thought-controlled camera probes. Transmits high-resolution images to my eye-piece over small distances. Invented and exclusively used by me for surveillance.  
  
Samson held his fist near his mouth, and stared directly at Stark, squinting a bit. How long have you been here, Tony?  
  
About 4 minutes. Maybe 4 and a half.**  
  
**_And as the cliché goes, old habits die hard.  
_**  
Light enters the atmosphere at this interval in the solar cycle, *and is distorted by various interactions to create a unique display of effects interpreted as colors. Though the phenomenon is routine to every 24 hour period, it is never the same, and the patterns and variations of colors differ every day. To many humans, the daily is a phenomenon they consider , and they sacrifice their productive roles in society in order to create text or objects with similar amounts of . But... why? What tangible qualities does a mere atmospheric effect hold?  
  
It is beauty, you filthy excuse for a toaster. It's just a daily atmospheric effect, but to human eyes, it's a kaleidoscopic display of brilliance. It always changes, from morning to morning, and never remains stagnant or safe. The sunrise always shows me the potential the universe has to create. It awakens a new day with an incredible visual burst, and shows me that there is no limit, not even so much the laws of science, to what can be accomplished.  
  
Of course, with all the people you've turned against me, this may well be my last sunrise, damn it.  
  
A new morning, a new day, a new set of challenges. Of course, at that time, I was still safe inside my little iron bubble. My surroundings were being kept at perfect, unchanging room temperature, my body was being fed by flavorless IV fluid, *and my AI, Jocasta, was there to keep me company, albeit not of her own free will. But despite my current situation, I felt far, far less than safe. I was stuck here in this chamber, with my only outside contacts being X2 and its monitor screens. And if X2 were to leave, I would be vulnerable to any enemy.  
  
And I did have many enemies. Thanks to X2, hundreds were dead of repulsor wounds, and Iron Man was Public Enemy #1. Which made Tony Stark, Iron Man's employer, a close second. X2 had already tracked a fleet of SHIELD-issued armored Mandroid troops headed for my home: three dozen men and women in their own armors, plus fifty Special Forces troops with specialized equipment, and a image (that) even my armor's sensory web could not identify. All of them were converging on Stark House, and I was helpless to defend myself. X2, of course, was content to sit back and watch the (sunrise) at high-quality resolution and wait.  
  
X2 didn't even remotely resemble Iron Man now as I looked at it through the thick glass. Following the damage King T'Challa and his followers did to it, it had rebuilt itself using its own design parameters. Which meant that any vestige of humanity left in it, visually at least, was purged. The brilliant reds and golds I adapted from Arthurian armor designs were now a deep jet black, and the damaged gauntlets, meant to be thin metal-plated coverings for a human hand, were reconfigured into thick, three-fingered claws with adamantium-tipped nails. The backplate was especially disconcerting—X2 had placed on it two guns from the War Machine armor, which had in the recent past been used against me. Even more chillingly, X2's faceplate, which at least had two human eye holes and one mouthpiece earlier, was completely blank except for a thin red slit  
where the eye holes had been before. Its metal —except for the boots, which locked to the floor like magnets—was completely still and appeared to be relaxed, almost limp. But it was fully alert, tapped into every last transistor inside my no-longer-humble homestead.  
  
You need not worry, Anthony Stark. The automatic turrets have been reconfigured to handle everything less durable than adamantium alloy. The halls of the mansion have been equipped with seventy-five Vanko VI shock-security drones. And several more counter-measures have been installed within the deeper corridors of my laboratory. And you are hidden in a cell far away from any potentially prying eyes. You are safe.  
  
But if Anthony Stark is so safe, Model X2, then why have you taken the greatest chance of all?  
  
Another disembodied voice projected into speakers right next to my ears. This was a more pleasurable one, that of Jocasta. She had been quiet for so long, but now she wasspeaking out. However, I was more than a little perturbed by the suddenness of her speech.  
  
If you had known anything about human nature, you would understand that you and Stark are linked circumstantially, and that to the American legal system, Stark is suspect. If you fail to protect Stark from the threats of the military, he will most certainly be detained. And possibly executed.  
  
X2 turned around 180 degrees, directly to the chamber holding both me and Jocasta; its long, thin eye slit looking directly at me with a dim but noticeable red light. Are you implying that I would fail to keep Anthony Stark, my creator, safe?  
  
Jocasta's voice remained flat and clear, but then again, so was X2's; machines scarcely waste power trying to get their point across vocally. Indeed. I am implying, for the interest of Anthony Stark, the man who rescued and rehabilitated me from a state of death, that you should take heed to the psychology of our aggressors and set him free.  
  
X2 paused for six seconds (I counted), then its visor flickered from red to black to red again, and made a beeping sound. Then the chromium restraints on all of my limbs were released, and the clear panel in front of me folded upward. After the hydraulic noises subsided, I fell to the floor on my face, (bruising) my chin. I tried to force myself up, pushing my arms against the tiled floor, but it was no use... after a week of being virtually paralyzed, my body was weak and clumsy, and there was nothing in this hauntingly empty room I could prop myself up with. I kept trying to move, trying to kiss something other than the floor. When I finally pushed my posterior backwards and up, a metal hand grabbed my midsection and lifted me into the air. Barely able to move, I was being held in the armor's arms horizontally, like an oversized baby. Then, as though it wanted to teach me to walk, X2 turned me around again and set me on my feet, holding my ribs tight with its arms until I regained my balance.   
  
, X2 ordered, looking at me once more with that creepy visor. I believe we have hostage negotiations to attend to.  
  
Dragged out of the rooms and through the chromium tunnels of my lab, the armor held me to its chestplate, forcing me to face forward as my arms were pinned, and my legs could do little but flail. *Breathing in the fresh air as I feebly struggled against X2, I knew that things could only get better from here... but as recent events had taught me, life can be very surprising.  
  
One advantage of technology, as you should have guessed, is that it expands our knowledge greatly. Though many waste this opportunity on pornography and pirated downloads, I use my fiber-optic connections to make sure I have tabs on everything—everything—that happens within miles of Stark House. And by extension, X2 had tabs (on it all). It held me by the west fourth floor window of my loft, pressing me against the glass. It had restrained my arms as it always did, and my body was totally naked, as machines had no concept of modesty; I certainly did not look like I was here under my own will. And below were those watching me at my weakest: a small group of SHIELD troops had made camp, waiting for X2 or I to make a move. All of their positions and conversations were recorded, and the frequencies of their receivers were registered the moment they landed. Through those frequencies, X2 submitted its hostage ruse and received SHIELD's responses. Of course, unlike most super-villains, X2 was rather poor at convincingly holding a hostage; one of many more disadvantages to technology that I've learned.  
  
The human nervous system can withstand only 0.070 amperes of electrical current before irreparable failure. My gauntlets can create upwards of 100 amperes, given electrical resistance. The recipient of those amperes will be Anthony Edward Stark unless my demands are met. Can you allow the death of an innocent civilian?  
  
A gruff, smoky voice replied over megaphone—that of my one-time ally, one-time foe Colonel Nicholas Fury. And what are those demands, Shell-head?  
  
Destroy yourselves. Remove the head protection of your armored Mandroid units, and channel the pulse weaponry upon your unprotected flesh. Leave the Mandroid units to me.  
  
What kind of bull-shit are you pulling here, Shell-Head?!  
  
A different channel was accessed, and the armor started talking directly to me; it was delivered to a small receiver the size of an ant on my ear, so nobody else could listen. I suppose bull-shit' is an epithet indicating that he does not believe me, Anthony Stark?  
  
I looked at X2, still standing by the window facing the camps of outside, and started chuckling. Soon, I went from soft chortles to outright laughter. I bent over almost painfully, laughing hysterically and almost getting past X2 in the process. I kept this up until I ran out of breath, and even then, any inhalations were spent on guffawing.  
  
Dr. Samson raised a lone eyebrow while making direct eye contact with Stark as he spoke.  
  
Yes, Doctor, it was a bit disturbing. X2 seemed a bit irritated too, and it kept asking me what my problem was. It looked at me directly with that thin red slit, and repeatedly queried me. What is wrong Anthony Stark, what are you doing, stop doing that Anthony Stark, etc. Its tone started to increase in volume each time it spoke, enough so that it could be heard behind the glass separating the (room) and the outside landscape.  
  
I was still laughing, my eyes moistening from my exertions. It was pissing off my homicidal creation, so I continued it. Eh... That's simply the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Fury and his men will... heh... kill us for this. You and me both will be dead for... heh... our crimes. They'll kill us all, and you screwed us both over. Some... heh... bodyguard...aren't you?  
  
X2 grabbed me tighter, almost crushing my digestive system. I am your bodyguard. I will protect you. You made me to perform that function.  
  
Below the window, on the ground, the SHIELD troops started to change formation. A few of the armored Mandroid units started to march closer to the foot of the building, like an army of golden lemmings from my viewpoint. Some started to fly upwards, drawing closer and becoming larger in perspective.   
  
I continued laughing as X2 stared at me. We're all... heh heh ehheh... dead... all gone... heh... It kept voicing objections at a high volume, but I still chuckled; Stop it, stop it now, do not make me use force. Eventually, it turned around and reached for my throat, its three metal fingers closing around my neck. Its voice started to change, not in volume but in quality. It said Stop it in a sharp and angry tone again and again. It sometimes loosened its grip, but the moment it stopped clutching, I started laughing again.  
  
We've tried your way long enough, Iron Man. Fire!!  
  
A loud crack reverberated through the walls, and (an anti-tank) missile flew through the glass window and detonated directly on the back of X2's helmet. Unfortunately, it didn't destroy X2 or me, but it left a noticeable dent in its neckplate. More missiles fired, and even behind a force field, *X2 received a few dents as the windows were totally destroyed, the property damage piled up, and I bounced around slightly from the impact. Activating a magnetic field, X2 pushed open the only intact door in the room and repulsed me through it. As I hit the wall at a less-than-gentle velocity, the armor leapt through the window and joined the fray.   
  
My back was more than a little sore, and my head seemed to be spinning far beyond the normal range of motion of my neck, but I still rose to my feet as quickly as I could. I had a chance to flee. A chance to flee... beautiful words.  
  
All I could do at that time was run. Not stop to think, or look back at what X2 was doing, or even scrounge up some clothes... just run. Run as fast as my softened and sore self could take me. I ran through the hall, *down through the darkened stairs behind one of the illusory walls, and through the metal catacombs. Briefly, I stopped by one of the cells—the one where I had been held in that bubble, where Jocasta was still held. I stepped forward, wanting to help my friend... but as I slowly approached, I (was) flooded by memories. Terrible memories, traumatic flashes of days spent being paralyzed against my will inside a coffin good only for mummies. I stepped forward but felt weaker and weaker as I went... and when the chamber itself was in plain sight, I turned around and ran again. I believe that as I exited, a voice coming from one of the speakers said Come back. Or Please don't leave me. I forget which.  
  
What I needed was armor—Iron Man armor with no mind controlling it but my own. The kind I had identified myself by for so long. I needed a suit of armor—anything from the second-most-recent model to the dated, clunky Golden armor to even a suit of medieval plate armor—just for the self-esteem boost it would give me. Whatever I was up against out there—X2, Fury, or (someone or something else)—I couldn't face it naked and exposed. (If nothing else,) I needed some clothes.  
  
And there was my wardrobe—Cell RT-14.  
  
Blank, riveted titanium steel door. To its right, a perfectly square black panel that reads hand patterns down to the muscle cell make-up of the individual. One touch and I would be safe. My trembling hand reached over and forced itself onto the wall tile...  
  
ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED  
  
Must have been an error, I thought. I pressed my hand against the tile, this time with a little more force.  
  
ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED  
  
I slammed my other hand against the panel, using all the force my atrophied muscles could muster. Same thing. The door was still closed, and the message resounded through the halls once more. I curled my hands into fists and pounded angrily. But there was no response.  
  
ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED  
  
I had programmed the lock myself. I had written all the code for the lock, built it myself, and scanned my own hand into the program—I remember that I scanned with a high-intensity photo lens, which at the time was more than a bit discomforting. But it wasn't working. My machine wasn't working.  
  
Last try for good measure. Reaching slowly towards the panel again, shaking. It wouldn't work, it wouldn't work, it wouldn't work... I kept telling myself that.   
  
ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED  
  
I just slumped to the floor, down on my knees, looking at the panel. There were other areas where I had stored armor, but it was clear that X2 had changed all the access codes here. And where else had X2 meddled with my property? What had it gotten its mineral hands on? I had made so many horrible weapons of war in my time... all of them were  
X2's now.  
  
Though my body was free, I was just as helpless as before. Still naked and unprotected, with the only thing that might save me far from my grasp. With the world crumbling around me; outside, X2 was in mortal combat with the SHIELD forces, and most certainly was not having too much trouble. Even if it was destroyed, it would take many men and women with it. And it would leave a legacy I would have to deal with, day by day, for the rest of my life.  
  
ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED  
  
It occurred to me quickly that the final broadcast of that intensely annoying message was not provoked by me... my hands were slumped over my knees. Instead, the panel was touched by a large, smooth hand covered in black cloth. Two yellow eyes looked down at me from a sleek figure in thin black mesh. The King had arrived.  
  
I suppose you'll be wanting vengeance? I asked King T'Challa, not looking up at him as my gaze was still on the door.  
  
Vengeance would be rash, he told me in his deep, unwavering voice. There is more to this situation than meets the eye. And with your help, we shall find out the truth.  
  
He extended a hand to me, reaching down to my level. I stared at it for about ten seconds, wincing as I thought of putting my fate in the hands of someone I had never trusted...then I reached out and dropped my weakened hand onto T'Challa's glove. What did I have to lose, after all?  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...**


	9. Chapter 8: Three Exterminators

**IRON MAN 33: THREE EXTERMINATORS  
**Part Eight of an Iron Man Fan Fiction Saga by Neil Iron Nitz Kapit  
Special Thanks to Steve Sellers, Zach Couture, Pam Williams, James Tonn, and Andrew Dean  
  
Tony, have you ever heard of cyclothymia ?   
I believe so, Doctor. A mild form of bipolar disorder, though why the hell you're bringing this up escapes me.   
It can be a serious disruption to daily life, but cyclothymia is treatable. Perhaps your....problems are more biological, not situational?   
What are you saying, Doctor?   
With your permission, Tony, I'd like you to take a quick appointment with a doctor, and then see if there's anything I can prescribe.....  
You want me to soften my brains, yes?   
No, it just seems that your moods have wildly varied during our sessions, and a little medication might help even you out....   
  
Doctor Leonard Samson received whispered, yet detailed instruction to do something anatomically impossible.  
  
Samson rolled his eyes, as Stark returned to his chair, sweating slightly. Very well, I'll try not to bring up the topic up, but I won't do that to both my poles, or either one.   
  
Very well, Stark stated at a level slightly too loud for Samson's ears. Let's continue. **  
  
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The lush gatherings of trees outside Stark House once would have been a prized subject for landscape painters everywhere. Now, my gardens  
would only appeal to grave robbers.  
  
An armored armageddon had swept through, and the bio-mechanical sensors I implanted inside the trees ( those that were not destroyed, anyway ) showcased little more than death. S.H.I.E.L.D troops lay dead on the ground, badly damaged husks still clenching their weapons. Grass was burnt to ash from smoldering machinery, and a few arms and limbs limply dangled out of some of those machines. All of the S.H.I.E.L.D Mandroid suits, the hulking gold armors I had built for them years ago, were slag. From the monitor room deep below the ground, the only living thing I could see through the smoke was S.H.I.E.L.D Colonel Nicholas Fury, backed against a charred stump, his leg badly bent but his hand and  
pistol extended.  
  
The object Nick pointed at approached. My armor could have easily killed the old warhorse from 70 feet away-- seven miles away, even-- but it decided to step forward slowly, its steel soles softly plodding the ground. Fury kept his pistol on target, and even pulled the trigger a few times, but the plasma discharges harmlessly slid off his foe's metal cover. X2 kept on coming, and Fury kept on firing, to the point of pathetically throwing his spent weapon at the animated suit. Nick's growling face glistened with beads of sweat, as  
my armor came five feet closer, then ten feet, then twenty, and then....  
  
Nothing. X2 stopped, turned around 360 degrees, and took to the air by the soles of its feet. From the air, it rocketed off into the wild blue yonder at incredible speeds, and towards the mansion....through the mansion's upper east window, in fact. It had bigger fish to fry, it  
seemed....meanwhile, Fury crawled out from the flaming woodlands around him, avoiding being fried himself, and thinking about whom he'd broil for this....  
  
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A rodent scurried on the floors of the Stark House Private Lab hallway. The _rattus norveigus_ paced anxiously on the dark steel tile, its whiskers twitching and its beady eyes scanning the giant's area. It paced across the floor, turning a few times in search of a stray scrap of food. Finally, the vermin's little peepers stopped, and it stared directly at a single object. A bright light, a fluorescent beam that strained the little rodent's eyes to look at.  
  
The burning light of judgment.  
  
A bright search-light illuminated some formerly sterile tiles, decorated by a smoldering heap of smoked meat. The light's source walked straight past its rodentile nemesis, leaving the remains to cool off alone. X2 could care less about the fates of lesser mammals.....there was only one life form it cared for, and that lifeform's well-being seemed in question.  
  
Through three sections, X2 continued its trek, keeping its unibeam search-light on high intensity. The beam started to reposition itself, shifting focus across various sections of the walls. X2's eyepieces shifted from side to side as well, glowing pupils twitching like the vermin's fleshy peepers. Every few muffled steps, it turned, then continued. It kept on moving in this fashion, up to the wide omnium gate leading to the interior of my dank pit of ponderings. X2 didn't have much time, so instead of entering the proper access code for my lab, it blasted through with a barrage of pulse-bolt fire.  
  
It did not expect any of that fire to be returned.  
  
Like a good martini, X2 was shaken, not stirred.....the burst of force hadn't done any major damage, but for all its heightened awareness and cold logic, to be taken unawares was quite a system shock. It quickly got to its metal feet and turned its unibeam to incredible intensity, but it wasn't firing with any aim , just blasting trillions of photons at anything suspicious. It dashed into the lab, continuing to shoot potential threats in all corners of the area, but that did nothing except increase my repair bills.  
  
Another blast hit the armor, sending it flying into a burning pile of circuits and steel that it had just destroyed. It destabilized itself and leapt ten feet in the air, scanning the high ceilings while releasing more fire. The target was not damaged, but X2's assault did not go unnoticed, and some more beams struck its ebony shell. This time, from all directions; the entire lab's arsenal was targeted on the armored bastard. Turrets secured in the walls deployed, and several floating probes took to the air. Miniature guided missiles, searing laser beams, and omnium blades all launched with perfect precision at X2, and though no single shot did much damage, the clean alloy shell it had made for itself would now need its first repainting. While it was trying to maneuver through the firestorm and demolish its many foes, several more shots hit it, and the black metal was coated with burn marks and concave dents.  
  
It still wasn't enough. X2 flew to the center of the lab, and froze, completely motionless except for an ambient layer of energy cascading its armored hide. For exactly four seconds, it just absorbed fire, and then released it-- with interest. Every single weapon I had built into the armor, plus several others it had devised, were released. The armor span like a humanoid top, and all manner of different energy states and explosives rushed from X2's hands, chest, shoulders, and feet, and it wasn't random dispersion. Each strike with each weapon was carefully calculated, and not a single attack missed. Pulse bolts destroyed the turrets, while chain-gun fire stopped the missiles cold, and controlled electrical discharges short-circuited the air probes. Laser beams fired, but not directly.....the unibeam targeted a reflective chromium plate on one of my chairs, which refracted the beam into several controlled targets.  
  
When the onslaught was over, X2 casually lowered itself to the ground, paced across to one of the smoldering consoles, and lunged its claw forward. The adamantine fingers tore straight through a metal shell.....  
  
....and into a not-quite-iron man.  
  
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The man in the midnight blue armor didn't scream, though he had been given good cause to.  
  
X2's claws were digging through his shell, slowly poking into his skin and onward through the ribcage. The pain was blinding him, his world becoming as black as X2's modified plating and blood stained the insides of his armor. My armor's arms had tightly enclosed its prey, with an unbreakable grip, and X2 could have crushed the blue-armored man easily. Instead, it had decided to take its sweet time, and show its foe its new manicure .  
  
Not much time at all, the armored man thought....his Stealth Iron Man suit had few defenses, and most of those involved the principle of Not Getting Hit in the first place. The suit's circuitry was designed to bend and repel electromagnetic waves, rendering it effectively invisible to mechanical eyes, but the explosive rumba my lab had just done had damaged circuits essential to the suit's EM disruption, and knocked the pilot inside silly. Now that he was no longer invisible, and his armor's exoskeleton wasn't nearly strong enough to break X2's deadly bear hug, the man inside had to use his organic cerebellum to think of a solution, quick. The solution was in his hands.....and he quickly realized that was  
literal.  
  
The man's hands weren't restrained, only the arms they were attached to, and while they weren't strong enough to even shake X2's gauntlets, they were in direct line with his waist.....and the gadgets inside the belt. The man fiddled around his utility belt, looking for the magic bullet he needed to leave my lab outside the confines of a bodybag. Several gadgets no bigger than a common house-key slid off his mailed fingers, most of whose functions he couldn't remember through the flashing pain he was experiencing, and none of which seemed enough to take down two-hundred and twenty-five pounds of PO'ed machinery. The man kept twitching his digits, partly because of his despair and partly because of spasmodic pain, until he hit something hard and metal.  
  
Hard and metal? Not X2, or even his own tasseled shell....but the battery pods on his hips. The suit's emergency power supply, dry batteries storing 50,000 volts each. With his ribs sloshing in his own blood, the man ripped his right pod off, and twisted his wrist beyond its limits to clamp the pod to X2's gauntlet. The flat interior fastened to X2's side via its polarized surface, and started to glow. Was X2 absorbing it?  
  
No.....it was absorbing X2.  
  
All the power in my ferrous Frankenstein's right arm was gone, and without electricity to power its motors, it went totally limp. One arm was unpolarized, dangling flatly like the sleeve of a shirt on a coat-hanger, and the other parts were starting to slack up a little bit. X2's left arm moved towards its chestplate, moving at slow speeds and twitching considerably, and jammed its claws in the blue pod.   
  
It went boom.  
  
All power systems in the lab failed at that time, and all the lighting went out. The corridors of the room were blacker than the bottom of the sea, and the only sounds were a few buzzes from slagged circuits. The man in the midnight blue armor electrified the photocells on the suit's skin and staggered to his feet, having a faint neon glow amidst the darkness surrounding him. He tapped the ear-piece on his helmet twice, and decided to break the silence.   
  
Pardus to Ferroyale. Have managed to survive with.... minor.... injuries. Rogue armor is not appearing on sensory read-out.   
  
Ferroyale to Pardus. Return to bunker ASAP. Excellent work, T'Challa.   
  
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The single best food I have ever tasted had to be a NutRageous candy bar I fished out of a wooden crate in one of the Stark House bunkers, located six feet underground behind a grass-cloaked hologram. As I sat on a low-quality swivel chair next to a scratch-built computer console, watching King T'Challa's flight course on the monitor screen, my mouth exploded in a veritable orgasm of chocolate and peanut butter. Yes, it was a pretty  
low-quality lunch, but after being trapped in a bubble for over a week and surviving on intravenous amino acids, a quick burst of Day-Glo wrapped fat and sugar was quite excellent.  
  
In fact, I was feeling surprisingly giddy at the time. I was free. I had escaped from the clutches of my most dangerous enemy yet, and I was back on my feet. No more helplessness for me; I was wearing a dusty dress shirt and a wrinkly pair of khakis, the shirt covered in crumbs as I wolfed down the bar. And with the computer systems by my fingers, my AI Jocasta ported to the hard drive, and a case of armor under the keyboard panels, I felt like I could take down the whole god damned world.  
  
And when King T'Challa entered the bunker down the holographic hatch, wearing my armor, I realized that wasn't a good thing.  
  
When he climbed down the iron rungs of the ladder and hit the dusty floor, T'Challa removed his helmet, holding it to the side. Underneath the iron blinders, he was still wearing his ceremonial panther mask, a black mesh that covered all but his eyes and gave him tiny cat ears that would look goofy on anybody else. The rest of him was still covered in the damaged stealth armor. Quite paranoid to wear a mask behind a mask, if you ask me....  
  
** The pot calls the kettle, Samson muttered under his breath. Stark surely heard, but he went on with his story anyhow.**  
  
T'Challa, I said, my voice deflating. I saw what the armor did to you through the video link. You seem to be limping....   
  
The king stepped slowly but confidently, his boots clanking against the floor. My family is bred to be resilient. A bit moreso than Model X2 seemed to be against our energy siphon.   
  
I threw down my candy wrapper, with a bit of chocolate still covered in the orange. Didn't seem to have worked too well. I can't detect him anywhere over or under the grounds, blackout aside.   
  
Perhaps because he is no longer on the grounds. Watch, Anthony.   
  
T'Challa handed me his-- MY helmet. I looked on the lenses of the mask, and saw a miniature map of Seattle. A red dot moved, leaving a pink trail behind it as it went south.  
  
Oh, shit. He can't be headed there, he can't.....   
  
Where is the armor headed?   
  
I nearly dropped the blue helmet and quickly bent over, reaching for the silver attaché case carrying an older suit of Iron Man armor, trembling as I did it. It's not headed back here. Not just yet. It's looking to power itself up.....and ANYTHING in its way is doomed....I have to stop it...   
  
T'Challa picked up the helmet and, with a disturbing amount of ease, reconnected it to the neckpiece. WE have to stop it. Your rogue armor murdered a dozen of my finest countrymen.   
  
I didn't look at the Black Panther when he said that. Instead, I stayed in my seat, with my collapsed armor on my lap and my fingers on the keyboard. I'm sorry, but I can't let you get involved. I've already buried enough friends as it is....   
  
If you were truly a friend of mine, Anthony, you would consider me an equal. Since you had lent me a suit of your armor in our quest, I had thought --   
  
Here's another thought, your highness. Did you think that I would let you use my armor if I didn't have total control?   
  
What are you implying, Anthony Sta--   
  
I pushed a button on the keyboard, and the blue armor froze up. The suit's skin had polarized to its tightest hardness-- so hard, in fact, that it was totally solid and unmalleable for even the man inside. T'Challa's enveloped body tipped onto the floor, straight and sturdy and stopped.   
  
Nasty virus I developed. The armor freezes for about fourty-five minutes, then self-destructs. You'll be fine, if a bit sweaty, but you won't be going anywhere until then.   
  
And if it's any consolation, I stated while forcing a smile, There's still some Nutrageous left on the floor for you. It'll taste good.   
  
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Meanwhile, I had garbed myself in my own armor. Covering my entire body was the Iron Man Model 18, Mark 2. A year-old design, still beyond anything else considered cutting-edge . A hard yet streamlined design, a finely knitted suit of mechanical chain-mail, colored in brilliant red-and-golds. Had more power in one gauntlet than most third-world nations.  
  
It wasn't enough to make me giddy again, or even mildly happy.  
  
A smooth but sweet voice whispered in my ear. Any last thoughts, Tony, before we head off?   
  
Yes, I sighed, and they're all of regret. Glancing down on the floor, I saw the king of Wakanda frozen in a micro-mesh cage, his faceplate facing upwards. I could only wonder what kind of face he was making at me, likely that creepy indifferent glower he always has. But I'd never know. King T'Challa was one of the few people in the world on the same mental wavelength as me, and we could have been such great partners We might even have changed the world. Instead, all my chances for friendship were sealed inside my own cold, hard armor.  
  
One cannot go back now. What you have done, you have done, stated in a manner extremely cold even for her. Now, are you ready to go?   
  
Armor's working fine. Power reserves are full, all systems are running at optimum performance, and there isn't a hint of artificial life in here besides you. Plus-- I removed a two-foot-long contraption from the side of my belt, an intricate piece of curved black polymer which looked like a high-tech dueling pistol, and waved it forward -- these Flintlocks should help match whatever upgrades X2 has given itself.   
  
Any other chores before we leave?   
  
Yeah. My human brain's neurons can't nearly match the speed of X2's circuitry. At least, not without a little professional medication.   
  
I cannot let you do this, Tony. You have never tested this before, and you have no idea what this will do to you.   
  
I started to get quite pissed. You wanna join the kitty cat on the floor?   
  
What, exactly, were you referring to, Samson asked.  
  
This, Stark muttered, removing a vial from his breast pocket. There was a neon red liquid inside.   
  
Strawberry Yoo-hoo? , Samson joked. Not even he chuckled.  
  
Steelnerve. Compound of my own design. Extremely powerful stimulant, increases brainwave activity exponentially. Derivative of methamphetamine.   
  
Samson nearly broke his notepad in half. METH? I thought you didn't want drugs to meddle with your mind.   
  
There was a grin on Stark's face which caused even Samson's skin to crawl. Not unless I design them.   
  
Samson began to wonder if he was helping Tony at all. Or even if he could ever.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED.....**


End file.
